Done All Wrong
by jlkeats
Summary: A cruel, or fortunate, trick of fate finds Draco in the last place he ever expected: his past. He has a chance to fix everything, but at what cost? Hermione/Draco. Post HBP.
1. Chapter One: Time

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Hello all! This isn't my first fanfiction but I'm not a veteran either, if you catch my drift. It seems that every project I start I inevitably abandon because I lose enthusiasm, momentum, inspiration. Call it whatever you will, but eventually I find I am lacking. This time it will be different, though. I am super excited about this story! I drafted a hasty and poorly plotted version a long time ago and it just fell flat on its face. I took my time on this, though, and suffered through the laborious details. I hope I made something that you will all enjoy! If, by happenstance, you enjoy it...it wouldn't hurt to toss a review my way...y'know (hint, hint).

A note on the timeline: my story adheres to the events in the books up until the beginning of _Deathly Hallows_, but that's about it. After that it's a whole new ball game! I don't want to say I will be following the events in the books _entirely_ because I might alter or change some minor details. You can count on it to remain relatively true to the books, though. If you have any questions or anything is confusing, let me know and I can clarify! Or if I've made some gross error, you can notify me too and it would be very much appreciated.

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

P.S. Please excuse any spelling or grammatical errors. I was so excited to share this that I was getting tired and reading and re-reading it over and over again!

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
TIME  
**

"Time is the longest distance between two places."  
_Tennessee Williams  
_

Everything that was once familiar and good in his life had been devastated by the malevolence and hatred of a single person. That is, if you could call him a person at all. The man severed his soul, hiding the fragment from the world, and with that, he abandoned his humanity. Voldemort was not a man but the empty shell of a man, lacking everything human. The unbearable likeness that he shared with Voldemort had defined the greater part of his life. He spent his youth in ignorance, reiterating the prejudices whispered in his ear from infancy. The attitudes of tolerance enforced at Hogwarts conflicted with his earlier, learned prejudices until the only response that remained was one of violence. Born out of the desperate need to win his father's approval and out of the need to subdue the weaker, benign part of his mind, Draco Malfoy became a Death Eater. In doing so, he fractured his soul in more ways than one. Perhaps in more ways than any person can recover from.

As with everything human, everything with the ability to change and be changed, nothing happened as it should have. Reason is subjected to the unchecked passions of desperate individuals, changing history. The Order was meant to overthrow the Death Eater attack on Hogwarts, Harry Potter was supposed to kill Voldemort and fulfill the prophecy, but it didn't happen. Now, three years later, on his knees in the library at Malfoy Manor, Draco was unsure if it ever would. So much had spun wildly out of control in the time since the battle at Hogwarts that the damage seemed irreparable.

"Mr. Malfoy, we are so pleased you could grace us with your presence this evening." His voice wasn't even human, but cold and serpentine. "How does it feel to have your son home, Lucius? Omitting his indiscretions, of course."

Draco looked up from the carpeted floor he had fixed his hardened gaze on. His father was standing to the side of the room beside his aunt. She had a smirk on her face, smug and proud. He could only imagine how she relished in his suffering. The uneasy silence continued until Draco wondered if Lucius has heard the question at all.

"My son is dead, my Lord."

He should have felt something akin to sadness or regret hearing those words from Lucius, but he could not bring himself to care. Lucius stood by idly while Voldemort ravaged their home, exploited their family, and murdered his mother. Draco's recollections of Lucius as a father, as a caring and loving man, were few and far between. Now that he resembled something of a decent man, confident of his path, Lucius could only renounce him. That was his greatest failure as a father, one that Draco himself would never repeat. There were a great many things that he would most likely never do, though, like have a family or become a father. It was likely he wouldn't be alive come morning.

A biting laugh rang out, cut with a malicious edge. "Yes, filthy blood traitors are no better than the Mudbloods that spoil their minds. It's a terrible shame to have the potential of such a bright, ardent young man wasted on a Mudblood."

"These are the words of a half-blood," Draco said. "Ironic."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits and he hissed an Unforgivable that Draco had become increasingly familiar with. He writhed on the floor in pain. Each nerve felt like it was being severed and seared off. When the curse had been lifted, a lasting ache remained. It was like the muggle phenomenon she had explained to him once, phantom limbs. A person who had, had a limb removed could feel it like it was still there. Even though it was gone he could still feel the pain. He forced himself up but the two faceless Death Eaters flanking him pushed him to his knees once again. It took little effort on their part. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him, begging him not to move. Draco willingly eased himself back on his heels, licking his lips. The metallic taste and smell of blood assaulted his senses. The blood flowed freely from his lips and gums, cut by his teeth while his jaw was clenched, while the spasms of pain ravaged his body.

Lashing out at them and showing weakness or pain was exactly what they wanted. The way to best them was simply to deny them what they desired and craved from him: submission.

"I would watch my tongue if I were you, little nephew," Bellatrix said.

She was taunting him, each sardonic word dripping with joy. Bellatrix liked to play games, but only those that she could win.

"Should I watch my tongue if you want me to tell you where Potter is or where the Order is hiding?"

She sniffed and turned her nose up at him. Voldemort's face relaxed and he looked content, at ease even. His features were so inhuman it looked unnatural. It made Draco uneasy.

"Draco," he said. "I hope that's not why you think you're here."

Alarm painted Draco's features despite his best efforts to remain dispassionate. He had assumed that he knew more than them. If they knew something valuable, something that could hurt the Order, then he was wrong. If they didn't, then they were playing with his mind. They could've been trying to get him to slip up, to tell them something inadvertently. It was impossible to tell.

"Oh, you did," he continued, provoking quiet laughter from others in the room. "While you and your Order have been gathering information about us, no doubt through extensive assistance from yourself, we have been doing the same."

"You're lying," Draco said.

Draco was a skilled Occlumens but he was no match for Voldemort's Legilimency. Regardless, he was immediately defensive, ensuring his mind was closed to all intrusion. Although he spoke forcefully he lacked certainty and Voldemort noticed his faltering confidence.

"I will admit I don't know where Potter and the Order are hiding, but I know who their Secret Keeper is. I think you do too, or am I mistaken?"

Draco had to remain calm. He had no way of knowing for sure whether or not Voldemort knew who the Secret Keeper was, but every action had a reaction and he'd be damned if he gave them anything useful.

"I don't," he said.

"Oh, come now, Draco. Their Secret Keeper and the pretty little Mudblood who ruined your mind are one in the same. If you are as indispensable to the Order as I imagine, you know who she is."

Each word was measured and calm, and each letter was enunciated. The truth he had been avoiding since he betrayed his family and his cause, since he sold out the monster in front of him, was settling in the pit of his stomach.

There was no way to win. If he reacted, shouting the vile insults poised on the tip of his tongue, or if he remained completely silent, he was giving Voldemort exactly what he wanted. It was over.

The other Death Eaters in the room watched intently. It was a demonstration for their benefit, an example of just what would happen to them if they ever considered switching sides. The Dark Mark wasn't like a promise or an agreement, it was binding. Those who pledged their allegiance belonged to Voldemort and the only way out was death.

He worked it over in his mind. She was safe, somewhere they couldn't find. That secret died with Snape. Since Dumbledore's death, the Order had closed ranks and prohibited outsiders. Although his case was exceptional, no one else had attempted to switch sides. Draco's oldest friends, the people he grew up with, were little more than slaves now. Those that were still alive he hadn't heard from or seen in years.

"She certainly was spirited," his aunt said, her dark eyes boring into his. "For a Mudblood she put up quite the fight. I rather enjoyed myself."

Bellatrix sauntered toward the center of the room where he was kneeling. Her gaze had left his face and was now unfocussed, her mind elsewhere. A soft metallic tinkling drew his gaze to her left hand. Wrapped around her sharp knuckles was a fine gold chain and swaying from it a small hourglass. Draco knew what it was instantly.

"She was wearing this...intriguing little item."

She threw it on the carpet, the chink of the metal against the cracked glass resonated in the otherwise silent room.

"Of course," she smiled. "It was easier to take it from her when she was dead."

Draco stared at it. The bottom of the hourglass was cracked and the gold filigree was stained with flakes of dried blood. It was still recognizable, it still looked the same as it had days before, safely around her neck.

"Even after I took her wand there was still that flicker of confidence in her eyes. She thought she could get away from me, from me!" She gestured wildly to the hooded occupants of the room.

They chuckled and sneered. Voldemort watched the exchange with a perverse, child-like intrigue.

"Well," Bellatrix said. "She thought wrong, didn't she Draco? She is dead, after all."

"SHUT UP!" he roared.

His aunt looked taken aback, her bottom lip jutting out in a childish pout. She was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. It wasn't that she commanded the respect of others, rather she instilled in them a fear for their sanity and their lives. She tortured people within an inch of their lives. Those that lived hardly resembled the people they once were.

"I promise you that my face will be the last one you ever see before I kill you," he told her.

Her hysterical laughter prompted chortles and jeers from the other Death Eaters. He was running out of options. They had gotten no information out of him, they had subjected him to torture of both the physical and emotional sort, and now they had nothing left to do but kill him. As soon as his feet touched the marble floor of the grand foyer they had taken his wand from him and with each passing moment, his chances were dwindling.

There were three other Death Eaters apart from Voldemort, Bellatrix, and Lucius. Six in total, six against one. There were no windows in the library. Instead, shelves of books stretched from floor to ceiling. He couldn't reach the fireplace on the other side, there were simply too many of them. The Time-Turner was a few feet in front of him. From where he knelt he could see the crack in the glass. He didn't even know if it would work. But he was a dead man already and he had nothing left to lose.

Draco was truly adverse to the uncouth and vulgar sort of dueling that muggles resorted to, but they had taken his wand. He slowly tensed his muscles, poised to move. This would need to be quick. All six of them had wands and would draw them as soon as he moved.

It was now or never, he reasoned, inhaling deeply.

He threw his elbow back and caught the Death Eater on his left in the face. The satisfying crunch of cartilage immediately quelled the laughter in the room. He used their moment of hesitation to his advantage. The Death Eater on his right didn't reach for his wand but moved to grab him instead. Draco hurled his body at him, forcing both of them to the floor and dodging the curses already shouted at him. Scrambling to his feet he lunged for the Time-Turner.

Draco had never moved so quickly in his life. Adrenaline forced his blood through his veins and clouded his judgement. Everything, the frenzy and hysteria, the yelling, it all seemed far away. It felt as though he were underwater, unable to clearly distinguish their faces or voices. The ringing in his ears was deafening.

The curses meant for him blew entire shelves to pieces, scattering the room with parchment. "Please work, please work," he whispered, rolling on his back. He flinched when the carpeted space he had just occupied burst into flames. He moved to get up while his trembling fingers worked to turn the Time-Turner.

The hourglass wouldn't turn, though.

Before the sinking feeling of realization could set it, a paralyzing pain propelled him forward like a rag doll. The hourglass shattered, cutting into his hand and scattering the white sand. He never thought there existed a pain worse than the Cruciatus curse, but there was one that did. It felt as though he was colliding with something solid and, at the same time, being forced in the opposite direction. He felt like he was being quartered, like each limb was being pulled in another direction.

If this was death, though, he welcomed the stillness and calm that would undoubtedly come after the pain.

And then everything went black.

* * *

"Where is he?"

The question was curt and hard, wrought with disbelieving anger. It was a rare occasion when the greatest dark wizard in history was slighted. No matter the circumstances, it was unacceptable. The silence in the room was tangible. No one dared to speak but kept their eyes on the floor. Shame and dread washed over them.

"WHERE?"

"He's gone, my Lord," one of the hooded Death Eaters said.

There was a brief pause and Voldemort quietly hissed the killing curse. The room was illuminated by a brilliant, green light and the Death Eater, now simply dead weight, crumpled to the floor with a dull thud. Bellatrix looked up. Pieces of burnt parchment still fell toward the floor, littered with the remnants of priceless leather-bound volumes.

"When," she said.

"What?" he asked, turning his malicious gaze on her.

"Not where, my Lord, but when," she said.

"I was under the impression the Time-Turner was broken."

"It did, my Lord."

"Explain."

"The Time-Turner wasn't broken but only cracked. It didn't break until Draco had it in his hands. It malfunctioned. It sent him back, but to a time he didn't choose. He's stranded without a wand or a way back."

* * *

There was a shuffling of shoes in the hallway and voices drifted up from the ground floor. A large crash rang out followed shortly by the screeching of Mrs. Black's portrait.

"FILTH! STAINS ON THE WIZARDING NAME! MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS IN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK!"

Hermione Granger snapped her book shut and stepped out onto the landing. She had converted the study into her own personal library dealing in everything concerning Horcruxes. It was small with a sturdy desk beside the front window looking out into the street. A weathered but nonetheless comfortable sofa faced the large fireplace. Before anyone had cleaned out the old house, the mantle and cabinets had been filled with an assortment of obscure and often dark magical devices, and nondescript potions. The room was also home to a variety of unwelcome magical pests, some more dangerous than others. Like the rest of the Grimmauld Place it had begun to look more like a home when it became the headquarters for the Order. While Hermione was the only permanent resident, Mrs. Weasley stopped in everyday, usually to prepare dinner. From time to time members of the Order stopped in, offering her company and support. But even though Grimmauld Place looked like a home, it lacked the people that made up a home. Every once in a while there was a meeting of all the members, but the two people Hermione longed most to see were never there.

Both Harry and Ron had gone off in search of the Horcruxes. She hadn't opted to remain at Grimmauld Place but Harry and Ron had pleaded with her. Hermione had immediately refused to stay but they presented her with the facts. She could provide them with the knowledge they needed to find the objects Voldemort had bound his soul to. When it came to research and studying, she was second to none. She was safer at Grimmauld Place. She was invaluable to them and they wanted her far from harm, from Snatchers, and from Death Eaters. Everyone—Harry, Ron, the Order—needed Hermione right where she was.

She leaned over the railing to see Mrs. Weasley scuttle down the hall, fussing about with the hideous troll-leg umbrella stand. Someone cursed under their breath and tried desperately to silence Mrs. Black. Hermione couldn't make out who it was, the obscene ranting of the portrait eclipsing all other sounds.

"Finally," Mrs. Weasley sighed, her voice loud in the absence of Mrs. Black's voice. "What a vile woman."

"Sorry Molly. That hallway is just so bloody narrow and the stand is always right there."

"Not to fret, dear. Will Remus be stopping by for dinner?"

"He'll be along. He always eats like an animal 'round the full moon."

"Hello Tonks," Hermione said as the purple-haired witch appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Wotcher, Hermione! How's the search for Horcruxes coming?"

"Slow," she admitted, descending the stairs. "Harry and Ron don't send much in their letters, I'm afraid they're not very helpful."

"You'll figure it out," Tonks grinned. "You are the brightest witch of the age after all."

The two followed Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen. Whereas Hermione was a terrible cook of both magical and muggle foods, Mrs. Weasley was brilliant in the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted to the far end of the room where Tonks and Hermione sat.

"Need any help, Molly?" Tonks asked.

"Oh no, no, that's quite alright," Mrs. Weasley said.

Hermione smiled. Mrs. Weasley declined Tonks' offer every time she stopped by for dinner. Although she was an excellent Auror and quick in a duel, Tonks was the least coordinated of all the Order members. Each scrape she fought out of she usually put herself in. That was simply part of her charm, though.

"Hello?"

The man's voice called from down the hall. Tonks had certainly charmed Remus Lupin, the unkempt wizard who appeared in the doorway. Every month around the full moon Remus' appearance progressed from organized to complete disarray. Hermione was sure he wasn't sleeping and was more than likely feeling the onset symptoms of his condition. The dark circles under his eyes and his wrinkled clothing only emphasized this. Lately, Remus looked to be in a permanent state of exhaustion, though, his face bearing the stress of recent events. It was for that reason that Tonks, chipper in the most dire of circumstances, was perfect for him.

Remus sat down beside Tonks and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "How is everyone?"

* * *

****

"Enough of this Horcrux business," Mrs. Weasley said. "Dinner is ready. Now, I want each of you to wash up, sit down, and enjoy one meal without one word about You-Know-Who."

In the kitchen, Mrs. Weasley's word was law. The room bustled to life with the sound of wooden chairs scraping the tiled floor. The table could seat every Order member who regularly visited but dinner was usually a much smaller affair. Several members stopped by for dinner on a regular basis, though. Tonks, Remus, Fred, George, and Mad-Eye sat on one side of the table while Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, Fleur, and Bill sat on the other.

"It looks wonderful," Fleur said.

"Then let's eat," George said. "I'm starved."

For the rest of the evening the conversation was light, but it was also slightly forced, undercut with worry and stress. Most of the Order members had scarified the simple pleasures in life for the sake of fending of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. There was usually little to talk about other than the war. It had, in all respects, consumed the waking hours of the day. In Hermione's case, it consumed her nights as well. She hardly slept and when she did it was restless. She was plagued with nightmares, with the embodiment of all her irrational worries and fears. That certainly didn't make for pleasant conversation.

After dinner was finished, Mrs. Weasley got up to get tea and biscuits ready.

"I couldn't eat another bite," Remus said, pushing his empty plate away from him.

"I don't know why not, you did a good job of clearing the table so far," Fred teased.

"Yeah, how many helpings was it Remus? Seven or eight?" George grinned.

"Be nice," Mrs. Weasley warned, shooting her boys a sharp look from across the kitchen. They feigned expressions of innocence and shrugged it off.

A sharp crack cut short the pleasantries. It resembled the sound of apparition but a person could not apparate to 12 Grimmauld Place, though. The enchantments and charms that protected the house prevented anyone from apparating or diapparating. But someone had gotten past the wards.

The person slid the length of the table, sending dishes crashing to the floor, as though their body had been flung across the room. Everyone leapt to their feet and back from the table. Fleur and Molly let out shrieks of surprise and Hermione immediately shielded her face. Peering around her hand she saw that Mad-Eye remained as vigilant as ever. His magical eye was fixed on the intruder and his wand was drawn. Bill, Remus, and Tonks also had their wands at the ready. Hermione mentally berated herself for leaving her wand upstairs in the study.

A tea cup teetering on the edge of the table fell and shattered on the tile floor. Hermione was mystified. She had come up with some of the protective enchantments herself, had casted them herself. It was impossible for anyone to get through them. Her mind, frenzied, worked over every minute detail.

The young man was on his back. She saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest. At least he was alive, she thought. The rest of his appearance was not as promising. One arm was thrown across his chest at an unnatural angle. His clothes were filthy, covered in ash. Hermione noticed the shoulder of his black button down was on fire. She hurried forward and hastily patted the material, depriving the small flame of oxygen. It had burnt through the cotton and marred his skin. His face was turned away from her but she could see a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She grabbed the young man's chin and turned his face to her, brushing his hair out of his face. He looked different from what she remembered but there was no mistaking his telltale blonde hair. His features were relaxed. It was strange to see him look so calm. His straight eyebrows weren't drawn into a stern or sullen expression, his lips weren't pulled up into a sneer. They were stained with blood, though.

Remus and Mad-Eye kept their wands outstretched and approached Malfoy's listless body. Hermione didn't look at their faces, but she imagined they were just as confused as her. Malfoy was a known Death Eater, one wanted for the part he played in Dumbledore's murder, and one of the last people they expected or wanted at Grimmauld Place.

But it wasn't the Malfoy she knew. He looked different, older even. His face was not as round but angular.

"Who is it Remus?" Tonks asked, reaching for his arm.

"It's Draco Malfoy," he said.

"How did he get in?" Bill asked.

No one answered. No one knew how or why. The answers would have to wait until he woke up.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	2. Chapter Two: Decisions

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

A gigantic thank you to everyone who reviewed! I thoroughly enjoyed reading them and, all of your insights were wonderful and spot on if I might add (yes, I thought the exact same thing; naturally, they wouldn't think to put up a ward against time travel because it's such a rare bit of magic!). All of your lovely reviews spurred me on and through the second chapter.

Just to answer some questions and address some points brought up in the reviews:

The backstory is important and essential. I know I'm keeping everyone in the dark, but everything will be revealed in time, not to fret ;) Yay, suspense! Temporally, the story is taking place when Hermione is seventeen. The Draco that jumped back in time is twenty, which means he came from a future three years ahead of the present time of the story. I hope that makes sense to everyone!

I tried not to rush through the dialogue, I apologize if I did (if I did, it was out of excitement!). On a similar note, I apologize if the plot is going along at a snail's pace. It won't always be this slow!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Thanks again and happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**  
**DECISIONS**

"You can never plan the future by the past."  
_Edmund Burke_

The kitchen was in complete disarray. There was a moment of hesitation before anyone moved.

Everyone had been so tense lately, waiting for something to happen. Other than the disappearance of Ministry officials, nothing had happened since June. For months there was no news, nothing to go on that would suggest Voldemort was plotting anything. Every week Hermione waited for a vague, uninformative letter from Harry and Ron, but that was all she had come to expect. Malfoy's sudden appearance at Grimmauld Place was the only thing that had happened in months. Hermione didn't know if this was part of some plan Voldemort had in mind or whether it was entirely unrelated.

Malfoy was a known Death Eater, but he was an impotent one, unable to act when Voldemort commanded it. Harry had told her everything that had happened in the Astronomy Tower. Malfoy was unable to kill Dumbledore and so Snape had to do it. Hermione knew Malfoy's pride would never allow him to ask or accept help from anyone let alone the Order. But perhaps this was different.

"I'll go check the wards," Mad-Eye said.

His voice was gruff and he kept his magical eye trained on Malfoy's unconscious form. He seemed almost reluctant to leave. She was sure that he was looking through the back of his head when he limped down the hall. There was no doubt that his magical eye would be fixed on the kitchen the entire time he was outside. Malfoy was unconscious and didn't appear to have a wand. He wasn't a threat to them, but Mad-Eye remained as vigilant as ever. Years of being an Auror, of seeing the worst of the worst, had instilled in him a paranoia that would never dissipate.

As members of the Order they had to be fair and judicial in their decisions or else they were no better than the villains they were fighting against. That meant that Malfoy had to be treated fairly. He had done terrible things but none of them knew why he was here. They had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"We should send for Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "He's clearly injured."

"You can fix the slimy git up, Hermione," Fred said. "Your just as good with healing charms as Pomfrey."

"I don't think we should risk it," she told him. "We don't know what kind of magic he used to get here. It could be dangerous."

"Who cares?" George asked. "It's Draco Malfoy. One less Death Eater is not a bad thing."

"George Weasley!" Mrs. Weasley turned on her son.

"Hermione's right," Remus interrupted. "We should inform Poppy, as well as all of the Order members who can afford to leave their posts."

"I'll get on it," Bill said, swiftly leaving the room.

He needed quiet to concentrate. Conjuring and sending a Patronus to several Order members was no easy task, but it was one that all of them had been trained to do. Using a Patronus was the only way to communicate without fear of being intercepted by Voldemort and his followers. By its very nature, a Patronus was meant to ward off Dark Magic. It was one of the only infallible tactics the Order had on their side.

"We should move him," Fleur said.

It just occurred to Hermione how bizarre the situation was. Draco Malfoy was laying, unconscious, on the kitchen table, in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. In fact, he was bleeding on the table. Hermione noticed for the first time a small spot of blood pooling under his head. It saturated some of his fair hair and stained the light pine of the tabletop.

"We can put him in a bedroom upstairs," Tonks said. "We can keep on eye on him that way."

There was only one room on the second floor other than the study. It was the one that Harry and Ron had shared while they were at 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione hadn't moved or changed a thing since they left. Their beds were still unmade and the walls were still plastered with posters of quidditch teams. It was almost like they were still in the house. She couldn't bring herself to straighten up the room. It was all she had left of them at this point. She didn't know when she would get to see them next. Although she hated to think on it, there was a chance she never would.

The third floor had two more bedrooms and a long, narrow bathroom. One of the rooms belonged to Hermione and the master bedroom was unoccupied. The topmost floor of the house had only two bedrooms. They once belonged to Regulus and Sirius but now they were empty. Hermione never went up there and the doors were always closed. Even though Sirius was gone, it was still his room.

"We'll put him in Regulus' room," Hermione said. "We shouldn't use magic, though, not until we know what he used."

"Alright boys," Mrs. Weasley said, gesturing to the twins. "Right to it, then."

"You want us to carry him up to the fourth floor?" George asked.

"Without magic?" Fred clarified.

"Without magic. Next time you two will check your attitudes before you speak," she told them, wagging a disapproving finger at them.

Hermione heard them cursing under their breaths, just quiet enough that Mrs. Weasley couldn't hear. Fred walked around the table to Malfoy's other side. They each hooked an arm over their shoulders.

"Careful with his right arm," Hermione said. "I think it's broken."

She was sure it was broken. It was bent at an odd angle and his shoulder looked like it had been dislocated, forcibly wrenched out of place judging by the rest of his appearance. Neither Fred nor George seemed to care if they were being careful or not. If Malfoy was conscious he'd be howling in pain and they would most likely delight in his pain.

"Right then, George?" Fred asked.

With George's okay, the two of them slid his body off the edge of the table. Malfoy's head lolled back and his feet his the ground hard. The twins almost buckled under the weight.

"Bleeding hell, he weighs enough, doesn't he?" George said.

In fact, Malfoy was lean. He was just as tall as she remembered, but he wasn't nearly as lanky. It was like he had matured years in what was only a few months.

Fred and George hoisted him up and all but dragged him out into the hallway. Mad-Eye slipped past them and limped into the doorway. Everyone looked at him, expecting some sort of confirmation of the assumptions they had already made. The only answer that made any sense was that there was something wrong with the wards.

"Well?" Remus inquired.

"Nothing wrong with the wards. They're all in place," Mad-Eye said.

Bill appeared behind Mad-Eye. Not a second after, the front door opened and closed with a sharp snap. McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey appeared behind Mad-Eye and Bill. They looked flustered and confused which lead Hermione to believe Bill hadn't included any specifics in his message. They had most likely dropped what they were doing and come as soon as they had heard.

"What's happened?" McGonagall asked. "Is that blood?"

Her brown hair, mottled with silver, was pulled back into a bun. McGonagall had always been a stern woman and she had always maintained her composure in the most dire of circumstances. She was a bulwark, a constant that everyone could rely on to be decisive. Very little had changed about her demeanor and appearance since Hermione's first year at Hogwarts. But like Remus she looked tired, not from lack of sleep but from her concern for hundreds of students.

After Dumbledore's death, McGonagall had taken the position as Headmistress at Hogwarts. Although the school was not what it had once been, she tried to keep everything running smoothly. Only a fraction of the students returned, though. Many parents feared that Hogwarts was no longer safe without Dumbledore. She had, had to replace members of the staff, friends, who had gone missing. No one else could have done what she had.

"Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "We have someone you need to see."

The front door opened and closed again. Two more people joined the crowd gathering in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Molly?"

"Oh, Arthur," she said, making her way over to her husband.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"We've had an...unexpected visitor," Remus said.

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood with Arthur at the bottom of the stairs. They had both been at the Ministry, trying to hold together what was left of a crumbling government. Voldemort had already begun to seep into the cracks like smoke, placing his followers in positions of power within the Ministry. He had countless others under the Imperius curse. The trouble was sorting out who was on which side and the Aurors had their hands full. There were not enemies on the inside as well as the outside.

Fred and George came down the stairs.

"He's a bleeding mess," Fred said.

"Miss Granger?" Madam Pomfrey inquired.

"Right," she said, excusing herself from the kitchen.

Hermione led Madam Pomfrey upstairs, stopping on the first landing to grab her wand from the study. They walked up the narrow stairway that lead to the second landing and, up the third and final winding set of stairs to the topmost floor. The door on the right was slightly ajar.

She had never been in Regulus' room before. She had never had a reason to come to the fourth floor. The only rooms up there were Regulus' and Sirius'. Hermione stopped short of Regulus' room and looked at Sirius' door. It felt like he'd been gone forever. Harry needed him so badly now. They all did.

She turned her attention to the other room and opened the door the rest of the way. Malfoy had been unceremoniously dumbed on the bed by the twins. He was on his back, the hand of his broken arm trapped under his body and his other arm hanging off the edge of the small bed.

The room was decorated in Slytherin colours. How fitting, she thought. Like the rest of Grimmauld Place the wallpaper was old, faded, and beginning to tear in places. Most of it, though, had been covered up by yellowing newspaper clippings.

"My goodness," Madam Pomfrey said. "Is that Draco Malfoy?"

"It seems to be," Hermione said.

The elderly woman looked at Hermione quizzically. She wished she had the answers that everybody wanted, but she was as lost as them. Mad-Eye said the wards were fine but somehow Malfoy was here.

Hermione watched Madam Pomfrey work. Her wand movements were precise and intricate. She couldn't make out what the matron was saying, she murmured each incantation almost silently. Hermione knew it was finicky magic, performing it was difficult and tedious. She herself had only mastered basic healing spells.

There was a sharp crack when the bones in Malfoy's arm righted and set themselves. She saw his body flinch but he didn't wake up. It had just occurred to Hermione that he might not wake up for a very long time. He could be in some sort of magical coma. As far as she could tell, Malfoy had come to Grimmauld Place by some means of strong magic, without the use of a wand. It must have drawn on the source of his magic to make it powerful enough to surpass their wards. It was more than likely the reason that Malfoy was still unconscious.

Unlike muggles, healing a witch or wizard was much more complicated. A magical person's health was intricately tied to their magic and the source of their magic. Magic, though, when uninhibited is unpredictable and dangerous. It had a direct bearing on the health of the witch or wizard. That's what made healing spells so complicated.

"Will he wake up?" Hermione asked.

Madam Pomfrey finished tying a sling around Malfoy's neck. She had given him a small dose of Skele-Gro to heal the breaks in his bones.

"I don't know," she said. "Whatever he's done it's taken a toll on his magic. He might not wake up for some time, but when he does he won't be feeling too lovely."

* * *

After she had done all she could, Madam Pomfrey left to join the rest of the Order in the kitchen. Hermione could hear the indistinct murmurs of their voices from Regulus' room. Hermione looked at the walls more closely. She approached a newspaper clipping that read: LORD VOLDEMORT RISES TO POWER. It was only then that she realized each photo and news article had to do with Voldemort and the first wizarding war. It was a morbid tale of death, destruction, and hopelessness. When she couldn't read anymore, she looked over at Malfoy.

The sling kept his one arm resting against his chest where she could make out a gentle rise and fall. He looked like an entirely different person and she couldn't understand why. He looked older, but it was more than that, an elusive and indescribable difference she couldn't quite put her finger on.

Hermione conjured a basin of warm water and a cloth. She sat down on the edge of the bed and soaked the cloth in the water. She placed the basin on the bedside table and lifted his head gently. Madam Pomfrey had healed his cuts, but the hair at the back of his head was clumped together and mottled with blood. She wiped it away slowly. The white cloth soaked up the blood and each time she dipped it in the basin, it turned the water a violent shade of red. She wondered how adverse he would be to this. He always hated when she touched him, but something told her he would appreciate her kindness. After all, he wasn't going to find it anywhere else. Not here, not at Grimmauld Place.

As much as the Order boasted that they were tolerant, that they fought for the rights of magical and muggle alike, they shared some things with the Death Eaters they could not ignore. Just as the Death Eaters believed the Order could do no wrong, members of the Order thought every single Death Eater was monstrous, incapable of good. The world was not divided into such extremes and life was not always that easy.

Hermione placed his head back on the pillow and soaked the cloth again. She pushed his hair out of his face and began wiping away the ash and filth, blemishes upon his otherwise flawless skin. While his face was free from bruises, she wasn't sure that was the case with the rest of him. He looked like he'd been tossed around like a rag doll.

His good arm was hanging off the edge of the bed, his long fingers almost closed into a fist. She moved his arm, placing it on the bed beside him, but not before something metallic fell out of his hand, hitting the floor inaudibly. Hermione put the cloth on the table absently, bending down to retrieve whatever it was that had fallen. It was light, almost weightless. It looked like a necklace.

Hermione held it up to the light, squinting to make it out. The chain was fine, gold, and expensive. The charm was strange, though. It didn't look like any jewelry she had come across before, magic or muggle. She could make out small pieces of glass held in a gold frame, an intricate gold filigree. It was spotted with what she assumed to be Malfoy's blood, though.

Her heart skipped a beat. It felt as though she had missed a step while walking down a set of stairs. She didn't have the foresight to see it coming but as soon as she missed that step, as soon as she recognized what was hanging from the chain, her heart began to palpitate. It was beating violently against her ribs and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

It wasn't a necklace. It was a Time-Turner. It was her Time-Turner.

Her heart was beating so fast she was trembling. She reached inside her jumper and wrenched her Time-Turner out. She compared every detail, no matter how small, but she couldn't find any dissimilarities. She looked at Malfoy. There was a reason he seemed different. He hadn't come from somewhere, some place, but from some time completely different from their own.

And for some reason, he had her Time-Turner.

The quiet hum of voices from downstairs began to escalate. She could distinguish separate voices now. She now had the answer to the question that was on everyone's mind since Malfoy had arrived at Grimmauld Place. Hermione stood up too quickly she found herself light-headed, blinking away the white spots that appeared in her vision. She looked down at Malfoy once more. He still looked peaceful and at ease, completely oblivious to the problem that he had caused by his very presence.

She realized that didn't know this person. She didn't know how old he was, what he was like, if he had changed at all. He was a complete stranger. It was hard to imagine him as someone different when he looked identical to the boy who had tormented her for years.

Hermione was sure to shut the door behind her when she left.

* * *

Mrs. Weasley and Fleur quickly cleared away the mess with a few quick spells as the Order members filed into the kitchen. They took their seats at the long table and those that had just arrived looked to everyone else for answers.

"What is going on?" McGonagall asked.

She was impatient. She had left her students at Hogwarts under the supervision and protection of the staff, and thus far she didn't know why. Bill's message had been urgent but ultimately vague. Both herself and Poppy had apparated as soon as they received the message. She looked to Remus for an explanation.

There was no way to put it that didn't sound absurd or ridiculous. Yes, Draco Malfoy suddenly appeared and was thrown across their kitchen while they were eating dinner. And none of them had the slightest clue as to how it happened.

"Draco Malfoy is upstairs," he said.

"Did you check that all the wards are in place?" Kingsley asked.

"Yes, but somehow," Remus told them. "He got past all the protective wards."

"That just not possible," Mr. Weasley said.

"It is, Arthur," Tonks said. "He came out of nowhere. Just landed right on the kitchen table."

"It was mental," Fred said.

"And the blood?" McGonagall asked.

"Malfoy's," Remus said.

"Looked like he'd been through quite a nasty scrape," Mad-Eye said.

"That's why we called on Poppy," Bill said.

"But how?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"At this point, we don't know," Remus said. "We'll have to wait until he wakes up to get any information."

"When will that be?" George asked.

"It might not be for some time Mr. Weasley," Madam Pomfrey said, walking into the kitchen.

"How is he?" Tonk asked.

"Stable. It appears that whatever happened to Mr. Malfoy took its toll on him, effecting his magic even. It will take him longer to heal physically and it will be very uncomfortable for him."

"Wonderful," Fred said. "As if he isn't enough of a git."

"Now is not the time, Fred," Mr. Weasley said.

"His wand?" Kingsley asked.

"I don't think he has one," Remus said.

He wasn't holding one when he appeared and they hadn't found one in the mess. That only complicated the situation further, though. While it was reassuring to them that he couldn't turn on them, it begged the question, how had he managed to get beyond the wards without a wand?

"What do we do when he wakes up?" Tonks asked.

"I've got some Veritaserum," Mad-Eye said.

"Absolutely not," Mrs. Weasley said. "You should know better, Alastor."

"He's a Death Eater, Molly. We can't trust him," Mad-Eye said.

"Yeah, mum," George said. "We can't just believe him. He'd sell us all out to Voldemort before he ever told the truth."

"Don't you say that name in this house," Mrs. Weasley said.

"We can't use Veritaserum, it would be unreliable," Remus said. "Draco is a skilled Occlumens, no doubt the doing of his aunt. He could easily resist its effects."

"We should just trust him, then?" Kingsley asked.

"He is just a boy," McGonagall said. "We should listen to what he has to say, at least."

"A boy? A murderer," Mad-Eye growled.

"You and I both know Alastor that Draco Malfoy did not murder Dumbledore," she said.

"He might as well have," Mad-Eye said. "He's got the Dark Mark, he's a Death Eater just the same as the rest."

"Enough!" Remus said, silencing everyone.

The kitchen was filled with an unbearable tension. The static was almost palpable.

"I think we should keep him here. I can keep an eye on him and possibly get some information."

Everyone turned to look at Hermione standing in the doorway. Their faces, contorted into expressions of anger and impatience, relaxed slightly. She didn't know how to feel about the situation or the compromise she had just suggested. Hermione didn't want to be cooped up with Malfoy, to be alone with him, or to live with him, but this was the safest place for him.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Hermione," Remus said.

It wasn't the best idea, that much was certain.

"I do," she said. "I don't think that's Malfoy upstairs."

No one looked confused. She didn't imagine they would. Instead they looked worried, concerned, for her health, no doubt.

"Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said. "I think you should have a lay down. It's been quite an eventful evening."

"It is Malfoy," she clarified. "But not the one we know. I imagine that the Malfoy we know, the seventeen year old boy, is probably at Malfoy Manor. The Malfoy upstairs, though, is from somewhere entirely different."

"I'm not sure I understand," Remus said.

Hermione opened her hand and let the small object in her palm fall onto the table. Everyone craned their necks to look at what appeared to be a broken piece of jewelry. Proof was the only way to make sense of anything she just said. She was a witch for Merlin's sake, she should have known by now that almost nothing was impossible. Including time travel.

She knew that McGonagall would be the first to recognize the magical device. It was the same one she had given to Hermione in third year. Although it was in a state of complete ruin, smashed to bits and covered in flecks of dried blood, the gold filigree was still intact. It was unique, distinct even.

"Is that your Time-Turner, Miss Granger?" she asked.

"It's the one that Malfoy brought back with him," she said.

Hermione pulled a delicate chain from her jumper. Hanging from that was the very same Time-Turner, a delicate hourglass filled with a fine, white sand. It wasn't broken or bloodied, but the similarity was undeniable.

"This is mine," she said.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	3. Chapter Three: Luck

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

OMG! I can't believe how long it took me to write this chapter. It has two very important conversations which, as a perfectionist, I had to rewrite at least a dozen times. I really wanted to get the dialogue perfect and have it unfold organically. I had such a hard time trying to get a certain Potion Master's dialogue down. Also, university is kicking my rear. I have midterms and essays galore. And then there was Valentine's Day (I know I'm late, but I hope everyone had a fantastic Valentine's!). I spent some much needed time pampering myself (manicure, pedicure, yay!) and drank a ridiculous volume of wine, so much so I woke up the next morning with my hot rollers still in my hair. But I was determined to have this chapter posted before I went to bed tonight. So, I apologize for spelling errors and rushed-ness towards the end. I wanted to have it posted for all you wonderful readers!

On that note, thank you, thank you, thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews! They are like the ink to my pen, metaphorically of course :P

Some of you have undoubtedly noticed oversights in character and I'm not surprised. They were intentional. For example: I know Mad-Eye would never ever leave a known Death Eater upstairs unattended (or any other Order members, really), but it would be hard to develop a plot between Hermione and Draco with Mad-Eye as a constant chaperone. LOL! Could you imagine him with his creepy magical eye just looming in the background? I would totally have to change my genre from drama to comedy, but I can't write comedy so that wouldn't work. Anyways! Draco isn't necessarily free to wander thanks to Hermione's ingenuity and also, I am totally exploiting Hermione's kindness to make the plot work. You will all see in due time! Yay, updates!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!**  
**

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**  
**LUCK**

"The only sure thing about luck is that it will change."  
_Wilson Mizner_

His body ached. Every breath, every time his tender ribs pushed against his bruised skin, felt like a lead pipe rubbing against cement. His movements were slow and lethargic. His head throbbed. When he opened his eyes, he could feel his temples pulsating. Every pain was amplified. This was not the death he had imagined. The scenery was less than impressive. Maybe it was Hell, then. Maybe that's what a life of vice had earned him, repentance or not.

It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the din. He was on his back looking up at a flat black ceiling with a large crack winding its way from one corner toward the center. The rest of the room was dingy and looked like it had been unoccupied for years. The shabby wallpaper was covered up with photos and articles from a newspaper, the Prophet no doubt. He couldn't make out the people in the black and white photographs, but they were moving. It was a small consolation. He was thankful he was somewhere magical. But it was most certainly not the library at Malfoy Manor. In fact, it was not the Manor at all. Not even the dungeons looked this ramshackled. His mother would roll over in her grave if her house fell into such disuse and neglect. There were cobwebs for Merlin's sake.

He sat up slowly while his body resisted. If this resembled the decay his body would inevitably go through as he grew old, he wished then and there that he would die young. It was obvious, though, that fate had something else in mind. He could have easily died in the library, there were enough people who wanted him dead. But with each laboured rise and fall of his chest, each twinge of pain, he was reminded we was most certainly not dead.

He was sitting in a dingy room. The only window in the room were covered up by heavy black drapes. He could see swirls of dust in the slivers of sunlight that cut through the darkness. As much as it was irritating to be in the dark, literally and figuratively, he was thankful for it. The light would undoubtedly make his splitting headache worse.

It was then he realized one of his arms was bound to his chest, held in place by a sling made of soft white fabric. It was no surprise that it ached as well.

He gingerly stood up but his knees did not seem to want to bend. His joints were like old metal hinges, rusted and weathered, unused.

He had questions and he was not a patient person. He wanted them now. How did he get to be here, in this squalid little room that was eerily familiar? How long had he been here, asleep? Who had brought him here? Had tidied him up? Even thinking made his headache worse, though, and he was forced to push his pressing questions to the back of his mind.

He limped over to the door and grabbed the old brass knob. It didn't turn, but it burned, glowing the same vibrant red as embers in a fire, searing his skin. Malfoy cursed loudly and released the hot metal quickly. There was a moment of silence before footsteps approached outside. The door swung open sharply, catching him in the knee. An instant pain shot up his leg, assaulting his already raw nerves. He let out a hiss of pain, hobbling back into the dresser. The antique mirror on top of it shuddered, threatening to topple over. Malfoy's good hand immediately went to his knee.

"Fuck," he snarled.

The person in front of him had long curly hair and a slight frame, petite even. A woman. That was all he could discern in the low light.

"Wonderful," she deadpanned. "I knew you would be a joy to speak with."

She was being unfair, treating him as she would treat his younger self, but his presence still irritated her to no end. She had doted on him and treated him with compassion, unbeknownst to him of course, but he was still as rude and unappreciative as ever. It lead her to suspect that he hadn't changed in the slightest. First impressions were important and Malfoy had, had two chances. He had failed spectacularly, both times. If only he knew the lengths she'd gone through to get Mad-Eye to leave the house. The old codger had been willing to camp outside Malfoy's door until he woke up. She had to push him out the front door and even then he insisted upon staying.

Malfoy had no wand and she did. It was much simpler than Mad-Eye made it out to be, but he was just paranoid. She had convinced Mad-Eye that if he ever wanted information out of Malfoy he was going to have to leave at some point. Even the younger Malfoy would have nothing to do with the old wizard who had turned him into a ferret. Unless the elder Malfoy had, had a lobotomy, she suspected he still harboured ill feelings toward the ex-Auror.

"You knew that I would be...difficult?" he asked.

That's putting it politely, she though. She knew he would be a git.

He could ascertain that she thought he was unpleasant judging by her heavy use of sarcasm. He wasn't an imbecile. He was aware she knew who he was. He had more enemies than friends, more people who hated him than could tolerate him. Malfoy tried in vain to make out her facial features.

Something was oddly familiar about the room to him, something strangely comfortable. A wave of deja-vu rolled over him like sudden nausea. It felt like those last few moments of sleep when he would grasp at the last wisps of his dreams, trying desperately to remember the smallest details that always eluded him. Whatever it was, it resonated with him, like memories he had forgotten.

"Where am I?" he prompted.

She ignored him and walked over to the window, pulling open the drapes. Malfoy shut his eyes against the garish sunlight. He thought he might pass out from the pain in his head.

"You're at 12 Grimmauld Place, headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."

Hermione didn't see the harm in telling him. Technically, he was her prisoner. He wasn't leaving. She had added a number of protective charms to the wards already in place. They weren't to keep people out, though, they were to keep Malfoy in. Like the tricky heating charm she placed on the doorknob.

He had heard wrong. He was sure of it.

"Excuse me?"

She turned to look at him. His voice was painted with surprise. She didn't expect that. She thought he would have known exactly where he was. He had turned back time. He must have been standing in this very house at some point in the future. That was how the Time-Turner worked.

He looked horrible. He had dark circles under his eyes and he looked sallow. He looked conflicted too. His frown was etched into his features. She could see he was turning all the new information over in his head, trying to get a grasp on what he had just heard. His gaze was direct, though. He was lucid, that much she was sure of. He was looking at her, unblinking. She had never seen him express such a range of human emotions. Hermione would go so far as to say he looked surprised to see her in front of him. He was so still she wondered if he was even breathing.

"Malfoy?" she asked.

He was acting so peculiar. It was unsettling. Perhaps she should have let Mad-Eye stay. Or perhaps was the time to send for Madam Pomfrey. He did look somewhat ill now that she considered it. The possibility that he was ill didn't surprise her. Magic was finicky. There was no way to know how it would effect an individual.

It had happened in quick succession. First when he had switched sides and had a price put on his head, and then when he had grown too attached to her. Again when Voldemort and Lucius had tried to kill him and then now. It, the cruel twists of fate, had been happening in rapid succession, he should've been accustomed to it. But he wasn't, and now he was standing in the last place he ever expected or wanted. She had told him a hundred times how dangerous it was to meddle in the past. Now, she was standing in front of him, alive.

"The Time-Turner," he said, finally.

She was slightly comforted by his recollection of events. At least he was of sound mind. Whatever had happened to him hadn't scrambled his brains.

"About the Time-Turner," she said. "I'm afraid it's broken. Beyond repair. I'm not quite sure how you managed to make it work. It's in pieces, but time travel is such a complicated and precarious type of magic. I can't say I'm entirely surprised."

Hermione wanted so badly to ask him why he had her Time-Turner, but she realized now was not the time nor the place. She needed pertinent answers, answers that would help the Order. Her own personal inquiries would have to wait.

"It didn't work," he told her. "I wasn't counting on it to work at all."

"What do you mean?"

She was intrigued. Partly due to his confession and partly by the ease with which he confided in her.

"I didn't have time. It was really a last resort," he told her. "The hourglass wouldn't turn. Someone hit me with a curse and the glass shattered. That's the last thing I remember."

His answer just fueled the fire, just engendered more questions. Last resort for what? Who was cursing Malfoy? A sarcastic voice in the back of her head wondered who wouldn't curse him given the chance, but she ignored it vehemently. How had his attackers managed to get inside Grimmauld Place, past all the wards? Hermione worried that it might have been members of the order rather than intruders who had broken in. The most puzzling question was how the Time-Turner worked at all if it was broken.

But could she even trust what Malfoy was saying? He was a Death Eater who had her Time-Turner in his possession.

He had that look on his face again. He had returned to the present from whatever memory he had retreated into when he was telling her what had happened, and he looked miserable. Hermione had never known him to be a particularly emotional person. He was usually a blank slate, immovable and dispassionate. The only emotions she ever knew from him were hatred, anger, and disgust. It was like he had become a fully functional human being over night. But it wasn't over night, she kept reminding herself. This was not Malfoy. At least it wasn't the Malfoy she was familiar with.

"How old are you?" she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Malfoy knew he shouldn't tell her. The less she knew about the future, the better. In his future, she was dead. She'd been murdered by his aunt. He didn't want her to know. He didn't want her to know any of it, it was a future that he wanted no part in.

Maybe it didn't have to happen, though. Meddling with time was wrong, it was dangerous, but he couldn't live a life he knew the answers to. Especially not a life that would result in her murder. Their future could be different. Not just for them, but for everyone. Potter could defeat Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, all of this nonsense could be over with and no one else had to die.

"I want to know what the date is today," he told her.

She was reluctant.

"It's September 13," she said.

"The year," he said.

He knew she was purposefully evading his question. She didn't trust him.

"1997."

1997. She was eighteen. He didn't even know her yet, not really.

"How old are you?" she asked again.

Malfoy leaned against the dresser, shaking his head. Of all the times to come back to, why had he come back to this one? Better yet, how? The Time-Turner had malfunctioned. It was a minor detail he deliberately left out when he recounted his story. He could see she was furiously trying to put the pieces together already.

Telling her would not benefit anyone, not right now. The Time-Turner only allowed you to travel back in time, not to different places. It only transcended time, not space. But here he was, at Grimmauld Place rather than Malfoy Manor. She would go absolutely mental if he told her that.

He couldn't offer her the answers she would want. He didn't know how his presence would effect the series of events that would unfold in the next couple of weeks. It was best he kept some cards in his hand that he could play at a later date.

"I'm twenty," he said.

"You travelled back two years?" she asked.

She was yelling, she was upset. He knew she would be. He had abused the privilege of time travel, a gross error in her eyes. He could hear her voice know: It's a privilege, not a right. The rules should be respected. If only he could explain it was not his fault, not in the least.

"Do you know how dangerous meddling with time is?" she asked. "It's not meant for you to go gallivanting in the past, it's serious. Two years, Malfoy, do you know what could go wrong in two years?"

"Yes, Hermione. I understand."

His voice was curt and his sentences clipped. He would not be treated like an ignorant child and he most certainly would not be spoken to in such a condescending manner. Not by her. If there was one thing that would never change about him, it was his pride. She was brilliant, but he rivaled her intellectually. She didn't need to tell him what he already knew. It was the one things she did that drove him mental, her constant need to reiterate the painfully obvious.

She looked taken aback which abated his anger slightly.

"What?" he asked.

"You called me Hermione."

"Well, that is your name."

"Not to you."

She was standing only a few feet from him and it was difficult for him not to feel comforted by the familiarity of her presence. But this was not the same woman he knew, not really. It looked like her and she had all the same irritating habits, but she did not love him and she did not know him. His last memory involving her was one he wanted to purge from his mind, his aunt telling him that she was dead. But there she stood, with a healthy glow and a smattering of sun freckles on her face. She was very much alive.

"I should let the others know you're awake. I think some of them would like to speak to you," she said.

She pulled the door closed behind her.

Then he remembered he would be locked in.

"No!" he said, trying to catch it before it closed. "Hermione!"

The brass knob burned his hand again when he tried to wrench the door open.

She didn't come back for him.

He did not want to speak to the usual suspects she would undoubtedly send for. McGonagall, Lupin, an eclectic assortment of Weasleys, and that old looney, Mad-Eye. The deranged old man could drown him in Veritaserum, violate his mind, torture him into telling the truth and he still would not believe anything he said. None of them would trust him. He remembered the first time he had to convince them of his loyalties. It took a curse from his own father, a curse that left irreparable damage, just to make them believe he was telling the truth. This time around, he was going to need what those muggles called a miracle. Hermione couldn't even explain how he had gotten here and neither could he. If the brightest witch of the age couldn't offer them answers, there was no way they would simply take his word for it. He was doomed, completely and utterly doomed.

Sighing in resignation, he limped over to the bed and sat down slowly. He ran a hand through his unruly tresses. Helplessness did not suit him, it didn't look good on him. This would be a long, grueling day. Interrogations truly were tiresome.

At least, he thought grimly, the worst was yet to come. In about a week, all hell would break loose at Grimmauld Place.

* * *

Malfoy had either changed or was still very good at lying. It was impossible for her to tell. He seemed sincere, but it could easily be part of some ploy. Hermione tried to shake off the paranoia. It was an unfortunate trait that had rubbed off on her, courtesy of Mad-Eye and his constant reminders of being constantly vigilant.

She hurried down to the kitchen, as far away from him as she could. She still had the charm upon the room, keeping him there until she decided what to do. Hermione had heard his angry call. She couldn't decide whether or not to send for the others. She had her own questions, ones he would not answer if she fed him to the dogs, so to speak. It would be wrong to keep the others in the dark though.

Mad-Eye would be relentless. She knew of his extreme distaste for the Malfoy family, or any Death Eater really. Sometimes his desire to bring Voldemort and his followers to justice overshadowed his sense of fair and unfair. Mad-Eye was a brilliant Auror, but he was a veteran and very much stuck in an obsolete perpective. He acted first and asked questions later. Death Eaters did not always fare well because of this attitude.

McGonagall and Remus would be the most logical members of the Order to send for. They both had fair temperaments and would see reason, but the Malfoy she knew was not a fan of either. McGonagall reciprocated the dislike. Whereas Dumbledore always had faith in a person's ability to change, McGonagall was less certain. Remus would be judicial, but Hermione doubted that Malfoy would be inclined to confess anything to the werewolf. From what she remembered, he did not particularly like anyone who was not of pure blood. Maybe he had changed, though. Maybe he would speak to them.

She sat at the table and mulled it over. What would be most profitable? She couldn't risk sending for McGonagall and Remus only for Malfoy to refuse to divulge anything. She couldn't start a panic by informing everyone. Hermione needed someone that Malfoy trusted, but someone who was also a member of the Order. Someone they could trust.

It was obvious, but at the same time Hermione was unsure if she could trust him. Harry had such a deep-rooted prejudice against their former potions master, it was difficult to see past that. But Harry was known for being irrational at times. Hermione was less inclined to think ill of him. The only reason she was hesitant was because of his precarious position within the Order. He was a spy, but the question was for who?

Dumbledore trusted Snape with his life. He vouched for Snape, defended him against the unprecedented charges laid by other members of the Order. Snape could very well be a spy for the Death Eaters, fooling every single one of them, but Dumbledore's judgement was always sound. Dumbledore saw into the truth of things, past every facade, through each lie. He could see the good in people. Hermione couldn't ignore that.

She had to send for Snape.

She didn't know where he would be. He had filled the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor in her last year at Hogwarts, but had disappeared after he had murdered Dumbledore. After the fall of the Ministry at the beginning of August, he was fully dedicated to masquerading as a loyal Death Eater, serving Voldemort and reporting back to the Order in secret. Amycus Carrow had filled his post much to McGonagall's dismay. Death Eaters were inside both the walls of Hogwarts and the Ministry.

Although Remus and Snape had a strained relationship, largely due to their tumultuous school days together, Remus would understand why Hermione sent for Snape. They could get information from Malfoy, that is if he still respected Snape, if he didn't resent him for being a turn coat. It was their best bet, though. Hermione could see no better way. She took hold of her wand, hesitating for only a moment before she sent a Patronus.

This had better work, she though. Circumstances were already complicated enough, already tiresome and worrisome. The last thing she needed was a child to babysit, one who did not appreciate her efforts and one who was intentionally difficult.

* * *

Snape arrived in a timely manner. Hermione anticipated as much, though. As much as Malfoy's presence was troubling, it was also intriguing. He shut the front door swiftly and she could hear his loud footsteps on the marble floor. He walked into the kitchen and she stood up from the table.

Hermione did not like Snape. He was always cruel towards her in school and she was not quick to forget it regardless of his allegiance, his faithfulness to Dumbledore. But she had never been so relieved to see him. She had done nothing but worry whether or not she had made the right choice while she waited for him to arrive.

"Where is he?" Snape asked.

"Upstairs," Hermione said. "On the top floor, the door on the right."

Snape nodded, turning sharply on his heel.

"Should I—"

"No, that won't be necessary Granger."

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

She felt silly. She was worried about Malfoy, but it was simply because her anxiety concerning the entire situation was misplaced. That's what she told herself, at least. Snape wouldn't do anything to harm Malfoy, so she couldn't imagine why she felt like she needed to be in the room.

"Talk to him, of course."

He said nothing else but disappeared up the steep staircase. Hermione gritted her teeth. She hated the way that Snape spoke to her, his painfully slow drawl that implied she was some sort of invalid.

Hermione sat back down at the table. All that was left to do was wait.

* * *

He could be up here for hours. He was hungry, sore, and tired, but he was unable to sleep. Before he could get comfortable on the small bed the door swung open again. He hadn't even heard anyone coming upstairs, but his mind had been elsewhere. Malfoy jumped.

"What the—"

"You will tell me what is going on. Speak clearly, do not lie to me, boy. Your circumstances are not in your favour. I need the truth."

Draco stood up. Next to Hermione, his godfather was the last person he expected to walk back into his life. In two years, he would be dead. Draco let the shock settle before he said anything.

"She sent for you, Severus?" Draco grinned. "I'm surprised."

"I expect Granger is hoping you will tell me what you did not tell her."

"I told her everything," he said.

"I told you not to lie to me."

"What do you want to know, then, Severus? I doubt you will be able to explain what has happened any more than I can."

Draco was irritated. He had forgotten how much Snape infantilized him.

"You used a Time-Turner?"

"Yes. I'm surprised Hermione didn't tell you."

"She did. But you insist on acting like a child and making this difficult. Now, I must find out what you are lying about because the Order will not reward you, a Death Eater, for intruding, for lying to them for reasons unknown to them."

Draco sighed.

"Who does the Time-Turner belong to?" Snape asked.

He had already been informed about what had happened when a small group of Order members had been summoned to 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco had no way of knowing how much Snape knew, but it was to Snape's advantage. He could register how honest Draco was being.

"Hermione."

"Why do you have it?"

"Why does it matter?" Draco snapped.

Snape was already suspicious. The entire situation was unsettling. His godson was not a man of resolution. He was easily swayed. This could very well be a charade, a plot designed by Voldemort to ruin the Order. Draco would act out of fear, self-preservation, and love of his family. It would hardly be out of loyalty to Voldemort. For that reason, Snape was sure that Draco was lying to him. There was another reason.

"Why?" he insisted.

"She gave it to me."

"Why did she give it to you?"

"What is this rubbish? How will interrogating me help me?" Draco asked. "They won't believe anything I have to say. I'm a bleeding Death Eater who used a valuable trinket that belongs to a member of the Order who's dead to, as it were, get inside this ruddy house. Hardly helps my case, does it?"

"Granger is dead?"

He had said too much. Draco had stupidly talked himself into a corner and there was no getting out of it without telling the truth.

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence before the onslaught of questions resumed.

"Why did she give you her Time-Turner?"

Their relationship, rather the animosity they shared for one another, hardly supported his claim. Why would Hermione give him something so valuable, so dangerous? Everything Draco was saying was counterproductive to his goal. He needed them, the Order, to trust him, not to suspect him.

"I didn't kill her if that's what you're insinuating."

"Why, Draco?"

"I imagine she thought I might need it," he said.

Draco was purposefully giving Snape uninformative facts that were not incriminating. No one could know what happened in the future, regardless of whether or not he trusted them. Snape wouldn't believe the real story, there was no point in trying. The less everyone knew, the better.

"How far did you come back into the past?"

"Two years."

Snape frowned. Of course he was confused, Draco thought. None of what he said made sense. Even if he was to tell Snape the whole truth, the fact that he was in the library at Malfoy Manor only to end up at Grimmauld Place, it wouldn't solve anything. He was still missing information, missing the one part of his explanation that would redeem him in the eyes of the Order.

"I told you not to lie to me," Snape said. "A Time-Turner has limitations, as I'm sure you know. It does not turn back years, only hours or days at most."

"I'm not lying," he said curtly. "Do I not look different? Older perhaps? The Time-Turner broke while I was trying to get it to turn. The glass broke. I don't know how it happened but I wound up here. I'm telling you the truth."

"Why did you use it?"

"Because I was about to die. I thought it might bide me some time."

"Die?" Snape asked. "Where you ill?"

"No."

"Did you suffer a life-threatening injury? A curse?"

"If I stuck around much longer I would have."

"So you were being attacked?"

"Attacked is not adequate. I would refer to it as attempted murder," he said curtly.

"Who was trying to murder you?"

Draco looked at his godfather. It was not possible to know what he was thinking or feeling. Snape was able to shut his mind and mask his emotions well enough to fool Voldemort. Although he had known the older wizard his entire life, he had never been able to decipher what was going through his mind. Draco was at a disadvantage. He remained defensive, though, remaining steadfast and keeping the walls up in his mind.

"I can't tell you that," he told Snape.

"If you don't tell me everything, I can't help you. The Order will not be as tolerant, they will not be patient. They will not give you the benefit of the doubt. You should be thankful Granger didn't send for someone less partial."

"It doesn't matter if I tell you or not. What I have to say won't make sense and you won't be able to help me. You tell them what I said and they'll think I've gone mental, or that I've penetrated the headquarters of the Order to prepare some ludicrous mass murder. Leave it to the mentally deficient codger, Moody, to build up some ridiculous conspiracy along those lines."

"Listen, you insolent little boy, your foolish and arrogant concern for yourself is not important. You have information that could end this war. That is all that matters, and as of now, you are worth only as much as the information you have. Do you understand? This is not a game."

The anger was palpable in the room. They were like to rams stuck in a headlock, stubbornly refusing to give any ground. Both of them were convinced they were in the right, that the other was wrong. The truth, though, was somewhere in between.

"You think I don't know that? Do you know how many members of the Order are dead two years from now? I do, so don't lecture me on priorities. I'm doing everyone a favour. The less they know the better. They don't want do know, trust me."

"One last time, Draco. Tell me or I will extract the information by other means. Who tried to murder you?"

"I hope you know what you're doing, Severus," Draco said. " It was our precious Dark Lord who both tried and failed."

"He was here?"

"No."

Again, confusion washed over Snape's face. Draco enjoyed every moment of it, a smug grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Snape wanted so desperately to know and now he did. Draco relished in the fact that Snape was no closer to an explanation than he was.

"Your...graceful entrance has been explained quite clearly. You were here, in the kitchen."

"I was in the library at Malfoy Manor."

"The Manor?"

"Yes, did I stutter?" Draco asked tartly. "The Manor. I was in the library with Voldemort, Lucius, Bellatrix, and a party of their closest friends."

"How?"

"You tell me."

* * *

Time is a funny thing. When you don't want something to end, it goes by too quickly, but when you are anxiously waiting for something, it tends to stop altogether. No matter how many times Hermione looked at the clock, she was convinced it was lying, that it was betraying her senses. To her, it felt like she'd been sitting in the kitchen for much longer. Snape had been upstairs for ages. She could hear nothing in the silence house. Their conversation didn't trickle down the stairs, there was no movement, nothing. It was as though she was alone in the house.

Hermione made herself some tea, hoping it would calm her nerves and hurry things along. Although her hands were busy, the work did not quiet her mind. It was a good sign, she reassured herself. They were most likely talking. Snape was most likely getting information from Malfoy.

The front door opened and Hermione almost dropped the kettle. She had been obsessing about how much time had passed that she had not actually taken account of how late it was. It was nearly six o'clock, which signaled the arrival of Mrs. Weasley and everyone who regularly came to supper.

"Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said, shooting a glance up the empty stairwell as she rushed over to the ginger-haired woman.

Mrs. Weasley noticed her breathlessness.

"Hermione, are you alright dear?" she asked. "Is Mr. Malfoy awake?"

"Yes," she said.

"How is he doing?"

"Well, he's coping. That's all we can expect, really."

"Of course, I imagine it was quite a shock for him."

Hermione laughed nervously. Yes, quite a shock indeed. He didn't even know where he was until she told him.

"I expect there will be more guests at dinner this evening."

The cold voice made both women turn to look up the stairs to the first landing. Snape was there but so was Malfoy. He looked incredibly angry. His face was slightly flushed and his jaw was clenched.

"I'm calling a meeting of the Order. It appears Draco has some explaining to do now that he is lucid."

"I'll make a good meal, then. Come, come, Mr. Malfoy, you look a bit peaky. I imagine you haven't had anything to eat in quite a while. What do you like to eat?"

Mrs. Weasley's voice faded into the kitchen as she beckoned Malfoy forward. Malfoy looked equal parts angry, irritated, and uncomfortable. Mrs. Weasley's motherly instincts overrode any suspicions she had of Malfoy. She might as well have been one of her sons, sans red hair and freckles. Of course, Mrs. Weasley's kindness was something he was not used to. It was something he couldn't grow too accustomed to because tonight he would have to prove he was deserving of such kindness, of the benefit of their doubt, to every member of the Order.

"Thank you for notifying me first."

Hermione looked up at Snape. She imagined it was difficult for him to swallow his pride in such a way. He was a Slytherin, after all. Snape was a man of few words and fewer explanations when it came to her. Hermione had to take what she could get, so she nodded and headed to the kitchen where she could hear Mrs. Weasley's polite and chipper voice. She didn't look to see where Snape went off to, but she imagined he went to send for everyone else. Dinner would certainly be an eventful affair.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	4. Chapter Four: Truth

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I sincerely apologize for my pseudo-hiatus! It was neither desired nor intentional. Unfortunately, university crept up on me like some Devil's Snare, fo' real. I had midterms, essays, tests, more essays, and now I'm preparing for finals. Actually, I should be writing two essays worth a quarter of my grade for a couple of my classes...but I would much rather be here, publishing this EXTREMELY LATE chapter for all you lovely readers out there! So, pretty please, have a little mercy. I also wanted it to be fantastic for all of you so I laboured over some tricky dialogue. Every conversation between Draco and Hermione has to be perfect, loaded with tension and whatnot! So, for your amusement (hopefully), the fourth chapter! YAY!

Again, my biggest apologies. I will never make you wait this long again for an update, promise! Anyways, I hope you enjoy because I enjoyed writing it...the end, in particular! Feedback is welcomed, in fact it is encouraged ;) A shout out to all my reviewers! And also, a huge thank you to those who simply read it.

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
**TRUTH**

"The most dangerous untruths are truths moderately distorted."  
_Georg Christoph Lichtenberg_

The kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place was hardly ideal for a meeting of the Order. It was a long, narrow room with an uneven concrete floor. The ceiling was low, making the space seem impossibly smaller. Regardless, it was the only safe place they had left, the only place free from Voldemort's prying eyes.

The wood table in the center was long and worn, but sturdy. There weren't enough chairs to seat everyone, but no one seemed to mind. They stood along the walls, sat on the counters, filled the doorway. Hermione had never seen so many members of the Order in the house, not during the summer months or even at Christmas. Malfoy's arrival seemed to have piqued everyone's interest. She noticed that almost half of the people in the room were Aurors. They were alert, continuously glancing at the doorway, and waiting for the proceedings to start rather impatiently. Despite the tension that had enveloped the room, the conversation was light and friendly. Everyone talked amongst themselves. Hermione stood at the far end of the kitchen silently, watching the spectacle unfold.

There was one empty chair and it was the closest to the door, reserved for their guest of honour. It faced everyone in the room, almost like the witness stand from the muggle courtroom dramas that she had seen on television.

Towards the head of the table, close to where Malfoy's empty seat awaited him, sat McGonagall, Mad-Eye, Remus, Tonks, Mr. Weasley, and Kingsley. Hermione could make out several of the Wesley's scattered throughout the room. The twins stood off to the left and on the other side of the room stood Bill, and Charlie, who had come all the way from eastern Europe where he had been negotiating with a group of vampires. Mrs. Weasley was scuttling about the room, pointing out there was soup on the stove and freshly baked biscuits if anyone was hungry. No one was eating, though, because they were too busy waiting, speculating, and whispering anxiously. Madam Pomfrey was hovering near the door, no doubt in vehement disagreement about the turn of events. Hermione could hear the woman's stern voice now. _Mr. Malfoy is in no condition to be put under such duress and scrutiny. This is absolutely unacceptable. It can wait for another day._

Of the members standing in the kitchen, almost every one of them forgot about the split level, the one stair leading from the hallway to the kitchen. The Order members whose only business at Grimmauld Place were meetings tumbled into the kitchen ungracefully. Those that frequented the house often, visiting Hermione on a daily or weekly basis, took the step in stride. Snape walked purposefully into the room, easily stepping from the wood floor to the concrete, hushing the kitchen that was teeming with a nervous excitement only moments ago. He stood to the side with Pomfrey, looking as sullen and miserable as always.

Hermione noticed that people craned their necks, diligently looking at the door. She didn't know what they were expecting. Most of them knew what Malfoy looked like and who he was. They had undoubtedly heard every detail of what had happened and how he had arrived. They knew he had no wand, that he was injured, and still it seemed that they were expecting a fight. Malfoy was in no position to test everyone's nerves, and it seemed he had no intention to. He had been entirely compliant thus far, something that unsettled Hermione because it was very much out of character.

He walked in, unfazed by their impetuous stared and less than friendly expressions. He stepped down into the kitchen effortlessly, without a downward glance or a moment of hesitation. Hermione frowned, uncrossing her arms and shifting to get a clearer view of Malfoy. His arm was still wrapped up and held in a sling. The way he walked, shifting his weight gingerly from one foot to the other, suggested he was still in pain. The movements were mechanic almost, quick, like he was trying to make them less noticeable to everyone. Malfoy was diligently trying to hide any sign of weakness. But that wasn't what bothered her. Hermione was well aware of his pride and his superiority complex, but it was the ease with which he walked into the kitchen that irked her. He had lifted his right foot in premeditation before the step, anticipating it rather than stumbling down into the crowded room. Malfoy knew it was there and like Snape, had taken it with ease, as if he had done it a hundred times before.

Like someone had ordered him to, Malfoy eased himself into the empty chair at the head of the table. A long silence stretched out in front of them all before Remus cleared his throat.

"I apologize for the setting, I know it's not ideal. I would like you to know this is not an interrogation on our part, despite that it may appear to be just that. We are not trying to fault you, Draco, we simply want to know how it is you arrived at Grimmauld Place," Remus said.

Draco did not look at anyone with resentment, hatred, or contempt. In fact, he looked bored. Hermione was slowly growing more and more suspicious of him. He didn't simply break the mould from which he was cut, he had done away with it. There was no way to predict or anticipate his actions because he had completely strayed from any commonsense path. Every action, gesture, and word he spoke seemed antithetical to his person. He was compliant and although she would not go as far as to say he was polite, he was at least respectful of others.

"None of you are the least bit interested in how because you already know. All of you have heard about the incident and the Time-Turner, and some of you were even there. None of you know why, though, and that's the reason for this interrogation—I'm sorry, _conversation_. Am I right?"

People shifted awkwardly as Malfoy glared at them, irritated at the facade that the Order had so cleverly put up. He was right, of course. News travelled fast among the members of the Order. They were already up to speed on what had happened, now all of them wanted to know Malfoy's intentions just as Hermione had. Where they good and honest, or the very opposite? No one could reasonably be expected to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt. His attitudes and previous actions towards the Order instilled skepticism in everyone.

There was also no doubt people were curious about the Time-Turner itself. How had he come into such a powerful bit of magic? The Ministry possessed nearly all the existing Time-Turners, and they were tucked safely away. Where exactly had he come from, or rather when? _Two years_. Two years was an awfully long time. So much could be changed.

"Alright," Remus said slowly, trying to keep the calm. "Would you care to explain why, then?"

"I was in a rather precarious situation and had no way out, at least not in the traditional sense of a door or a window," he said. "So I used the Time-Turner."

"Precarious?" someone asked.

"Yes, precarious. I think that's reason enough," Malfoy snapped.

"Oi, listen here, Malfoy," George said, stepping forward brazenly while his brother grabbed his arm.

"George, please," Arthur sighed.

"No, no, the boy has got a point. What's he mean by 'precarious'? How do we know he's not making it all up?"

"We all know where his allegiances lie!"

"Why were you at 12 Grimmauld Place?"

"He's a Malfoy! How can we trust him? Look at his father, or his whole family for that matter!"

"How did you get a hold of a Time-Turner?"

"This is absurd, we shouldn't be listening to what he has to say, we should be finding somewhere to lock him up!"

"Do you have the Dark Mark?"

"He shouldn't even be here! How do we know he's not planned this out with You Know Who? They could be sending a raiding party here as we speak and we'd have no way of knowing!"

"How far back did you come?"

The din the room, the mutterings among companions, grew to a roar. Everyone was assaulting him with demands and questions, all clamoring over one another to be the loudest, to be heard amid all the shouting.

Several people were on their feet at the table. Someone pounded their fist on the wood, making the china Mrs. Weasley set out for tea jump and scatter. Hermione noticed that Malfoy was calm in all of the commotion, but he looked weary. He irritably ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the hysteria before him. Finally, Mad-Eye stood up, pushing his chair back roughly.

"ENOUGH!" he roared. "Have you all gone mad?"

"This is not a trial," Remus shouted. "It is not a place for accusations."

"It is, though!"

"We all know what he's done!"

"He shouldn't be here!"

"Yes he should," Hermione said. She didn't yell. Her voice was even, though, devoid of the anger and irritation that seemed to illuminate the kitchen. Several people turned to look at her incredulously. "Where else can he go? If we let him leave he could run into himself."

"But you don't know why he's here!"

"Does it matter?" she asked.

"Hermione," Charlie started. The concern in his voice was audible.

"Stop, everyone stop and listen," Remus said. "Listen to what Hermione has to say."

Hermione glanced briefly at Malfoy before addressing everyone in the room. He was staring intently at her, frowning. But he didn't look angry or perplexed, just frustrated. She couldn't imagine why. She was trying to help him.

"If he's a Death Eater and we let him leave, he'll return to Voldemort. If he's come to spy, as so many of you are convinced he has done, it'll be difficult for him if he's constantly being watched. If he stays here, no one has to worry about his motives because there's nothing he can do to help Voldemort. He has no wand, no method of communication, and he can't leave. I'll make sure of it."

She wasn't being entirely honest with everyone. She knew there was something abnormal about his presence, abnormal even in a magical sense. Snape most likely knew more than her, but he was the last person who would give up such information. He distrusted most of the Order and disliked them all. His only loyalty was to a privileged few, none of whom were present, except for Malfoy. Hermione needed Malfoy to stay with her at 12 Grimmauld Place. She wanted to know how the Time-Turner had malfunctioned which would require exhaustive research and his account of the events. Perhaps she could send him back to the time he came from if she knew how he had gotten here, and maybe she could arrest from him some personal information. He had her Time-Turner and she wanted to know why, he seemed like an entirely different person and she needed to know why.

If Malfoy was anything, he was steadfast in his hatred of most people, especially Muggle-borns. It was beyond unlikely he would change his attitudes, it was impossible. Yet here he was, in all his state, a changed man. Hermione couldn't imagine what could inspire such a change of heart, providing he had one, of course.

"We deserve to know the truth, the entire truth, if he's going to be staying here," someone said.

"No," Malfoy said. "Those of you who have to know will know, but I am by no means indulging all of you. I thought that, perhaps, members of the Order would be mentally competent, if not intelligent, but clearly I'm mistaken. You honestly believe I'm going to tell all of you what happens in the future?"

"So we're just supposed to trust a royal git like you?" George asked.

"Yes, Weasley, you are," Malfoy said.

"Draco is right," Remus said. "No one should know what happens, time is not something any of us should be in a position to meddle with."

Not when so many people had loved ones in danger, loved ones who were killed. The future would be nothing but ruins if everyone used that type of information to protect their nearest and dearest.

"It's resolved then," Mad-Eye said gruffly.

"What's resolved?" Charlie asked. "We haven't even discussed anything!"

"It's not a discussion," Arthur said sternly.

"I guess not every member's opinion is equal then, is it?" Fred asked.

"Calm down, boy," Mad-Eye said.

"What did you think would happen?" Hermione asked. "That we would force the truth out of him?"

"This is a war, Hermione," Fred said. "And he is a Death Eater."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"He's a Malfoy!"

"And I suppose that's justification enough?" she prompted.

"Of course it is!" Fred said.

"I wouldn't put it past him to turn on every single person in this room."

"I've heard enough," she said, waving her hand in resignation. She began weaving her way through the mob toward the entrance. She didn't look in Malfoy's direction for fear that her defense was pointless. Maybe she was wrong, maybe his change in character was not genuine and he was, in all respects, a conniving, manipulative Death Eater. She realized, though, that their prejudices were not something that could be negotiated. If they wouldn't listen to reason, she had no way of convincing them. She had no proof, she couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't turn on them, that he truly had changed. But what she had to offer was of no use to anybody in the kitchen. They would rather toss aside their humanity, the one thing they fought for, than to hold on to it. Standing in that room was like being suffocated by the same hatred and negativity that spurred their enemy on.

Everyone watched her in silence, she could feel their eyes follow her as she stepped into the dark hallway. The noise in the kitchen started up and escalated rapidly. She made her way up to the study, her sanctuary, but she could still hear their voices, ringing loud and clear from downstairs.

Malfoy had watched her intently. Nothing about her was different, she was exactly as he remembered on the evening he last saw her. Her capacity for compassion astounded him. Her eighteen-year-old self may have hated him with a vengeance, but her compassion quelled all that disgust she harboured for him. For his sake, he hoped that someone else would see what she saw.

* * *

Hermione had read the same line three times and she still could not comprehend what the simple sentence meant. Silence had enveloped the house after long and arduous arguments downstairs. The voices from the kitchen had dimmed and she could no longer distinguish voices from one another. It was just a quiet hum that dissipated, and then there was silence. She heard the front door open and close a handful of times. Despite her rather dramatic exit, her mind was still in the kitchen. She didn't want to leave, but she was making no progress. Even now, as she buried herself in Horcrux research, she realized she was making no headway.

"Hermione?" a quiet voice called.

She looked up from where she sat in front of the fire and spun around on the sofa. Professor McGonagall was standing in the doorway to the study. The older witch looked worn out to say the least. Hermione gently closed the book on her lap and set it on the coffee table in front of her.

"I'm sorry I left," she said. "It was a bit of a one-sided conversation."

"Oh, it's fine, Hermione."

"Have they all gone?"

"Most of them, yes. It's just Severus and Remus now, they're downstairs with Mr. Malfoy."

"So he's staying?" she asked.

McGonagall gave Hermione a measured stare. "Yes, he is, if that's alright with you."

"It's fine. I can't think of a more appropriate place."

"I don't want you to get your hopes up too high, Hermione. Mr. Malfoy has told some of his story, the pertinent information at least."

"To all of you?"

"Not everyone. He wanted to speak to Remus, Severus, and I alone."

"He's told you, then? That he travelled back two years?"

"Yes. Two years is a long time and while Mr. Malfoy may seem very different, I don't want you to put too much stock in that. He may very well be the same boy we are all familiar with."

"I would like to think that those two years were significant in some way," she told the older witch. "I think he's changed. He doesn't seem to be the same."

"All the same," McGonagall said. "I'd like you to be careful."

"I think I can handle myself," Hermione smiled. "What harm can Malfoy do without a wand?"

"Oh, I know you can. If ever you need anything, I'm always at the school."

"Thank you, Professor."

"I must getting back now, goodnight Hermione."

"Goodnight."

McGonagall turned and disappeared into the dark landing. Hermione could hear her descending the stairs, hear her footfalls fade into silence and, the distant sound of the front door opening and closing. Hermione got up and went to the kitchen. The house was dark. When it was just her, Hermione never bothered to light the lamps on the landings or in the hallway. The only light apart from the fire that was on in the study was the light from the kitchen. It filtered into the hallway. Hermione could make out voices as neared the doorway.

"Is that everything, Draco?"

Hermione peeked in to see the young blonde wizard looking intently at Lupin. For an instant, almost imperceptibly, his eyes shifted to Snape. He nodded with a hardened expression. He was lying! It was enough to tip off Hermione...well, that and years of distaste for the blonde Slytherin.

Although Hermione wasn't aware that Snape was privy to everything, she was sure that Malfoy had only told Lupin as much as he needed to know and had told Snape a great deal more. Malfoy had meant what he said earlier. He would keep from everyone as much as he could. Knowing what happened in the future was not safe, and they didn't want to know. The truth was much more discomforting and disconcerting than they could imagine. He was doing all of them a favour.

Hermione stepped into the kitchen. Remus and Severus turned in their seats, and Malfoy stared unabashedly at her.

"Ah, Hermione," Remus said, getting to his feet. "I'm glad you're here."

She held up her hand, stopping Remus. "Professor McGonagall already told me what happened."

"Good," he said, putting on his old jacket. He seemed slightly relieved that it had already been taken care of. It was quite late and he undoubtedly wanted to get home to see Tonks, to put this out of his mind. There were very few comforts anymore, but having someone to go home to was one of them. In Hermione's case, though, her new companion brought her little comfort. He was someone she neither loved nor cared for. He was someone she would tolerate, at best.

A slightly awkward silence pushed itself into the room. "Well, I'll be by tomorrow then."

It wasn't as subtle as he intended it to be. Remus could not have been more conspicuous about his ulterior motive. He was coming by to check up on Hermione, to make sure Malfoy didn't do away with her while she slept. Even Remus, one of the most reasonable members of the Order, still had his suspicions and doubts.

"Alright," she smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Hermione. Draco," Remus said, nodding in the young man's direction.

Malfoy said nothing.

Snape stood and gave Hermione a curt little nod. He shot Draco a very pointed look before he turned on his heel and followed Lupin into the dark hallway.

Hermione waited and heard the inevitable open and close of the front door, the rusty hinges whining in protest. She didn't want them to leave either. The thought of being alone in the large house with Malfoy was not comforting.

It was one of the busiest days 12 Grimmauld Place had seen in a long while, and Hermione welcomed the silence she was so familiar with. It wasn't an easy silence, though. She turned her attention away from the dark hallway she had watched Remus and Snape disappear into and looked to the young man sitting at the table.

He was a picture of ease. Malfoy looked relaxed rather than uncomfortable or awkward as she imagined he would. He was eased back in the wooden chair, his gaze still intently fixed on her. Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She was not used to having a constant companion. For the most part, it was just her and Crookshanks. Kreacher avoided her at all costs and she preferred it that way.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Would you like something to eat?"

She was being redundant. She was nervous. Malfoy fought off a grin. Hermione had no idea how well he actually knew her. While his inner-Slytherin was urging him to exploit this knowledge to tease her and make her squirm, he couldn't bring himself to be so childish. She had, had a difficult day. He had watched while everyone ignored her and disregarded her suggestions. That was someone Hermione didn't handle well, rejection.

"No, he said. "Thank you."

Hermione nodded. She wondered if uttering those two words felt as foreign to him as they sounded to her.

"There is something I would like, though."

Malfoy stood up slowly and Hermione watched him carefully. Perhaps it was the uneasy silence itself or the lack of people in the house, but she felt nervous being alone with him. She wasn't afraid of him, Death Eater or not, but she was on edge. She had a hundred questions she wanted to ask him, but she had nothing to say. She couldn't talk to him because she didn't really know him. She wondered if they even had anything in common, anything they could talk about.

She cleared her throat as he walked over slowly, putting his free hand in his pocket.

"What's that?"

"A shower."

"A shower?" she asked.

He grinned. "Yes. I'm afraid I don't have a wand and time travel can be quite filthy."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Of course. The bathroom is on the third floor."

He was standing in front of her now and glanced at the darkened hallway she gestured to.

"Some light, perhaps?"

Hermione shook her head. He was probably wondering if she was mentally competent. She could see his mouth moving but she heard nothing, she was so intently focussed on his face. Malfoy looked so different up close. Or perhaps it was that Hermione had never been this close to him before for such an extended period of time. She never noticed that his eyes were a mottled shade of blue and grey, or that his skin was not—as it looked from afar—perfect. Malfoy did have imperfections.

He had several thin scars on his face. One cut through his left eyebrow and the fine blonde hair no longer grew there. There was another, much smaller one on the bridge of his nose and he had a third near the corner of his bottom lip.

"Right," she said. Hermione turned her attention away from his face. She pulled out her wand and silently lit the lamps in the main hallway. She lit each lamp as she walked up the stairs towards the third floor. She could hear Malfoy following behind her and worse, she could feel him staring at the back of her head.

Hermione stepped inside the bathroom and lit the overhead light. She turned to and opened what looked like the door to another room but was just a linen closet, pulling out a towel for him.

"The house is a bit old so the hot water takes a while, but it does work," she said, handing him the towel. "You can sleep in the room upstairs, it's yours."

Malfoy was already pulling the sling from around his neck. "Thank you."

Hermione nodded, turning to go downstairs. Malfoy watched until she was out of sight and closed the door. The entire scenario was like a bad case of deja vu and his head was beginning to ache because of it. A hot shower would at least ease the pain in his muscles if not his head. Sitting and listening to everyone bicker was not particularly exhausting, but he couldn't figure out why he was so tired and why his body seemingly refused to heal. He turned on the water and gingerly eased out of his clothing.

* * *

She sat in front of the fire for the second time that night, staring at the exact same sentence. Malfoy was already a distraction, she thought. She was supposed to be helping Harry and Ron, she needed to focus on finding Horcruxes, if not with them then in the pages of old, dusty books. If she didn't keep up her end of the arrangement, they would be stranded, Merlin knows where, without the information they needed. Time was of the essence and she was foolishly focussing her time on Malfoy. She would have to dedicate less time to researching Malfoy's predicament than to the Horcrux situation. Regardless of her priorities, she couldn't help but be intrigued.

Hermione reached into her pocket and from it pulled her Time-Turner, or rather the one that Malfoy had with him. It was still mangled and flecked with blood. She pushed the book off her lap and turned it slowly, surveying the damage. The sand was essential to the device, that much she knew. Even a crack in the glass was dangerous, but Malfoy had shattered it. That must have somehow caused the two year leap through time. Specifically how, though, she couldn't say.

"You must be going mad not having the answers."

She gasped sharply, spinning in her seat to look at the entrance behind her. Malfoy was standing there, his damp hair hanging limply across his forehead. She had never seen it so long and unruly. Usually it was neatly trimmed.

"A little," she admitted.

He was still wearing the filthy clothing he had come in. Hermione doubted he would wear any of Harry's clothing or that it would even fit. Malfoy was taller than Harry, than his younger self even, and larger. His shoulders were broad and he was no longer the thin boy from Hogwarts.

"If anyone can find out what went wrong, it's you."

He was smiling. It wasn't a grin or a smirk, but a lighthearted smile. Though she couldn't tell if he was teasing her or being sincere, there was a playful flicker in his eye that suggested he was being slightly disingenuous. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did you need something?"

"Not particularly," he shrugged, walking around the room and examining it closely. He surveyed the many bookshelves, the cabinet of trinkets, and the mantle, filled with framed pictures of the Order.

Hermione watched his slow progression around the room carefully. When his eyes fell on her desk, an antique piece that had been in the study since she first came to Grimmauld Place he stopped and smirked to himself.

"Everything is the exact same."

Hermione's intuition flickered, he wasn't just referring to the study. Malfoy was trying to say something else, but about what she couldn't be sure. He was being intentionally cryptic. The way the nostalgia painted his face suggested it wasn't a happy time he was referring to, though. His eyebrows were drawn together, his expression solemn.

"Did you come to Grimmald Place often?"

"Often enough."

"Were you...are you a member of the Order?"

"Possibly."

She glared at him. His ambiguous answers were not enough for her to formulate an accurate portrait of him. He was doing this on purpose and, he seemed to be enjoying it with his coy answers and nonchalant attitude.

"What's it like?" she asked, finally. "Two years from now."

"I can't say. You know that."

"It's not good, is it?"

Malfoy sighed and looked over at her. She was too intelligent for her own good, and there was no use in lying to her because she would know. So he shook his head and watched as her expression softened.

Hermione nodded, trying to picture the future, however dismal it may be. She had always been under the impression good always conquered over evil, but perhaps that wasn't the case. Perhaps the future was not one she had ever envisioned or thought possible.

She uncurled her fingers and looked at the Time-Turner sitting in her palm. For some odd reason, it only enforced the sense of dread that weighed down on her.

"You can ask me all the questions you want," he told her. "But I won't promise answers. Just this once, will you please leave it alone? It's far better for everyone if the truth is forgotten and obscured."

"I need to know in order to figure out what happened, or to send you back—"

"Send me back?" he asked incredulously. "You can't."

Malfoy wasn't just saying he didn't want to, he was also saying that it was impossible, that she was incapable. Hermione wasn't having any of that. He should have known better than to suggest she was unable or inept in some way. That just spurred on her ridiculous notions of playing with time, a danger she was quite familiar with.

He saw her expression change from one of curiosity to one of resolve, though stubbornness seemed to be the more accurate name for it. She was even more hardheaded than him, if possible.

"Can't? Really?" she asked, the anger evident in her voice.

"No, Hermione, you can't. You may be able to, but you said yourself that meddling with time is dangerous."

"That's not why you don't want me to do it. You just don't want to go back. What could possibly be so terrible about your future that you would want to spend two years here, in this prison?"

Because it would be two years with her, two years he wouldn't have if he went back. Because there, back in his future, she was dead.

"That is none of your business."

He was being defensive. Hermione knew he was hiding something.

"I think the Order has made it quite clear that it is," she said.

"Yes, the Order has. But you think differently. If you've forgotten, I was in that kitchen earlier, I know you think differently than them."

"You," she said, standing up in a fury and gathering some books up off the coffee table. "Don't know anything. You were a foul, rude little boy in school, and you never gave me a reason to think otherwise. Just because I vouched for you it doesn't mean I think differently. I don't trust you and I don't think I ever will, not after what you have done. I only suggested you stay here so I could keep an eye on you. I think you'll find the notion of surveillance undermines that trust you seem to think I harbour for you."

Malfoy was not accustomed to having his pride injured. He clenched his jaw and felt the urge to show her she was wrong. He knew she felt something, no matter how small, and he knew she was different than other members of the Order. She didn't have prejudices like them.

"Oh," he said, smirking. "I know you think differently, believe me. Your patience and tolerance will soon give way to a medley of unwanted emotions that you can only deny for so long."

He was saying much more than he should, but he was careful to ensure none of it made sense to her. In time it would, but for now she would be left unsatisfied and bothered. As she would soon find, it was a condition only he could remedy, whether she liked it or not.

Hermione stopped abruptly, turning to look at him.

"You're tired. You need to rest."

"You think I'm tried? That's why I'm spouting all of this? No matter how ridiculous it all sounds, you're forgetting that I know what happens. I know more about you than you know about yourself."

Hermione scoffed. "You're manipulative, Malfoy. You're a liar, and lying is simply a means to an end."

"And what end is that?" he asked. "What could I possibly gain from toying with you?"

"Amusement?"

Malfoy smirked. "True, but if I'm supposed to be convincing the Order I'm on their side, shouldn't I be honest?"

"I don't know what you're playing at, I don't pretend to, but no matter what you say, whether it is the truth or not, I can't believe it because I don't trust you."

"You will."

"Unlikely," she said, clutching her books to her chest and turning on her heel.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, watching her leave.

She said nothing in return but disappeared around the corner and up the stairs. She may not believe him, but he knew that she could do more than trust him in time. All he had to do was wait for certain events to unravel, perhaps then she would believe him. But he was telling the truth, or at least a part of it.

**TO BE CONTINUED **


	5. Chapter Five: Simple Pleasures

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Okay, I broke a promise. I said I would never make you wait this long for an update and it's been way too long! I can only apologize and apologize some more...and even more. I'll admit I've had issues with the dialogue. I definitely wrote out a draft of this chapter and left it for a while because I was incredibly unsatisfied with it. But I think I've fixed it up, or at least have made it remotely presentable. And I've also been busy moving following my exams (yay summer!). Contrary to popular belief (slanderously advertised by UHAUL), if you don't have a moving company helping you it takes FOREVER. And then you have to get situated, unpack what took ages to pack, mourn the loss of broken or lost items, and then find the stuff you've unpacked in your new abode. Stressful, right? I hope I never have to do it again. Even as I type this though, I know it's an inevitability that I will move again. University demands it *le sigh*

Anyways! I apologize profusely and hope the wait doesn't deter from your (hopefully) immense enjoyment that is witty/playful banter between Draco and Hermione. And the plot also thickens...oooooooo!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE  
****SIMPLE PLEASURES**

"Men may scoff, and men may pray, but they pay every pleasure with a pain."  
_William Henley_

Each waking hour passed without sleep, without rest or quietude. Time seemed to slow and it passed almost painfully for Hermione. Tossing and turning between the sheets, attempting to find a different attitude in a different position, proved to be utterly useless. It wasn't out of fear that she couldn't close her eyes, but simply knowing that he was asleep in a room upstairs. His presence simultaneously heightened her awareness of her solitude and undermined any comfort she derived from knowing she was alone. She now had a house guest to mind, a guest who wasn't entirely welcome.

While it was disconcerting for her to dwell on the notion of his constant presence for the unforeseeable future, Draco was not upstairs in a easeful rest as she imagined. He was wide awake. Much like her, his mind was reeling, working too fervently for him to find peace.

The fates that had brought him here, the series of unanticipated events, had been quite cruel to him. He was led to believe she was dead one moment, and the next she was standing in front of him, her cheeks aglow with a warm blush, her eyes bright with a curious, insatiable appetite. She was more lovely than he could remember her being at eighteen, but she had never been more far away from him than she was now. Hermione had made it perfectly clear she did not trust him and the knowledge that someday she would did not comfort him in the least. Draco could remember, plain as day, the laborious effort it took to earn her trust, and the time it took as well.

One thought, nestled in the back of his mind, consoled him in his angst. His being here, his going back in time, altered events. They would not unfold in the exact same manner as he remembered, though there were bound to be uncanny similarities, an overlap of two distinct timelines.

Draco sighed heavily, tucking his hands behind his head and staring at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom. It was his first memory of Grimmauld Place, at least this time around. If nothing significant had been changed, his first memory of arriving at Grimmauld Place as a seventeen year old would be slightly more animated, and not nearly as pleasant as waking up in a bed.

The darkness of the room faded to a blue-tinged din, the earliest rays of sunlight cutting through the room. He watched swirls of dust in the light, unable to quell the exhaustion that plagued him. It was too early to be awake and too late to fall asleep, but he couldn't stay in the room any longer. The lighter it got, the more visible the atrocious headlines and manic photos of Death Eaters were. That would be his first task, to wash away the shrine to the monster who had ruined so many lives. But not before something to eat. His stomach groaned in protest and he realized he could not remember the last time he had eaten anything.

Draco rolled out of bed and slowly moved to the door, casting a glance at the scrap of fabric that had constituted his sling. His arm still ached, painfully so, but there was no harm he could do to himself that hadn't been done to him already. He'd had a room full of adept Death Eaters try to murder him, had been literally thrown back in time, and now, with or without sleep, his body refused to heal. It would be a long, muggle-like road to recovery for him. There was no magical remedy that could fix him. His magical core was like a stripped electrical wire, raw and unbalanced. It occurred to him that without his magic in order he was no different than a muggle.

The house was so old and rundown that any attempt to descend the stairs quietly was thwarted by the floor boards that cried out under his weight. On his way to the kitchen he noticed Hermione's door was firmly closed. The light from the rooms at the front of the house filtered into the hallway, giving him enough light to find his way downstairs without injury. Nothing was out of place in the house, but it seemed different somehow. Desolate and cold, maybe. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

As he had anticipated, the kitchen was empty. The stone floor was frigid on his bare feet, a sensation all too familiar to him. Though it appeared to be two years to everyone else, it had only been a couple of days since he had been in this exact same spot: alone in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Falling back into his routine, regardless of everything else going on, was easy, natural almost. For a brief moment, it was like nothing had happened.

* * *

Hermione glanced at the clock on her bedside table and sighed. It was still early, even for her, but there was no use in feigning sleep. The least she could do was find him some clothes to wear. She got up and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a jumper, going down to Harry and Ron's room to scrounge up some appropriate attire. They had taken most of their belongings with them, but she could come up with enough for Malfoy between what they two of them had left behind. He was much larger than both Harry and Ron. Maybe as tall as Ron if not a bit more, but certainly larger, not nearly as slight or lean.

Hermione found a couple of pairs of jeans and a few knitted, nondescript jumpers, and a couple plain t-shirts. It would have to do until she could get out to buy him something more fitting. He hardly seemed the type to wear second hand clothing, let alone anything Ron might wear. Merlin forbid he was ever forced to wear Ron's Chudley Cannons sweater.

She folded everything into a neat pile and left the room as undisturbed as possible, hesitating briefly at the door to turn the light out and gently close the door behind her. It felt wrong to be in there without them, to be moving anything in the room. She wanted to preserve it, she needed to. It was the only thing that tricked her into thinking, if only for a moment, they were still somewhere in the house.

The sound of running water filtered into the hall as she approached the kitchen. He was awake. He must not have slept either, not if he was up before her. Though she couldn't imagine why. He seemed oddly well-adjusted at Grimmauld Place. She peered into the kitchen. His back was to her and he was turning on the stove, placing a kettle on the burner. By hand. Without a wand. In a muggle fashion. It astounded her that he even knew what a stove was, let alone how it worked.

"Did you just turn on the stove?" she asked.

More like blurted it out. This was groundbreaking. Malfoy living like a muggle, without magic. She imagined he would be like a child, unable to fend for himself without servants or magic. She was even surprised he hadn't called on Kreacher. After all, Malfoy was related to the Black family.

Malfoy turned, surprised by her voice.

"Yes."

"How?"

"You see, you turn these fancy dials here and the top gets really hot, and it heats the water in the kettle."

She stepped further into the kitchen, placing the pile of clothing on the edge of the table.

"I know how," she snapped.

"I always knew you were bright."

"I meant," she seethed. "How did _you_?"

"I do know how to make tea, Hermione."

"Not the muggle way, you don't."

"Oh yes I do."

"Since when?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to tell her and stopped when he observed her expression. She looked far too smug. Sometimes she was bossy and self-righteous, but rarely was she smug, not unless she had some absurd plan she was about to see through. He chuckled, shaking his head. He had almost told her exactly what she wanted to know: little details about the future she could piece together.

"You almost got me," he admitted.

She shrugged. "It was worth a try."

"And you can keep trying, but I'm never going to tell you."

"I doubt that. You are clearly not a man of resolve."

"How do you mean?"

Hermione sat down at the table, watching him intently. He moved around the kitchen with ease and what she decided was not foresight but prior knowledge. Malfoy knew in which cupboard the cups were, in which drawer the spoons were, and where to find the sugar and tea bags. The milk was self-evident, really. She observed him intently. As far as she knew, he had never been in this kitchen before the previous night. Perhaps she was wrong, though. His preparedness certainly suggested it.

"You, the seventeen-year-old you, is a prejudiced, ignorant, vile little boy. You were...or are I suppose...self-serving and hateful, and you're a Death Eater, or at least your younger self is."

She had to keep in mind that his presence here didn't negate his presence elsewhere. There was no sense in referring to him in the past tense. There were two of him, one seventeen and one twenty.

"And you think that I'm not one now?"

"No, I don't."

"You seem awfully sure of yourself."

"Intuition."

"Ah," he said, putting a tea bag in each cup and filling it with hot water. Letting it steep, he turned to her, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning against the counter.

"What if I told you I'm still a Death Eater?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Right, because you don't trust me."

"Because you're different."

"So you believe I'll eventually give in and tell you everything you want to know simply because you believe I've changed? You think I have no resolve."

"Yes."

"You're overlooking quite a bit in your clever little theory."

"Like what?"

"What if this is some grand scheme to undo the last defense the Order has left?"

"And what's the last defense?"

"You."

An uneasy silence stretched before them. Malfoy watched her carefully. She didn't look away from him, but narrowed her eyes.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You're the Secret Keeper. Voldemort gets his hands on you and all this disappears: every notion of security that you and the Order have invested in this house."

"How did you know that? It's a—"

"Secret?"

"Yes, a secret."

"I told you yesterday, I know a lot more than you give me credit for."

"Would you care to share how you've come by this information?"

"That's privileged information, I'm afraid."

Hermione was not impressed, he could see her clench her teeth in anger. Her curious, if not cautious, gaze had hardened. She glared at him unabashedly.

"This would be much easier if you would just tell me what I need to know."

"You want to know, you don't need to."

"Yes I do! How else am I going to find a way to fix this mess you've made?"

"You'll find a way, and it'll be equally impossible with or without my help. "

"You don't know that. Every little bit of information could be the difference between you being stuck here, in this house, for the next two years and going back to where you belong."

"And what could be so wrong with staying here?"

Malfoy sat a cup of steaming tea in front of her, looking at her intently. He was serious. He did not see anything wrong with spending two years in what was basically a prison. He wouldn't be able to leave, he would be trapped in the confines of 12 Grimmauld Place. Although she considered this house her home, she couldn't imagine such a fate. She was free to come and go as she pleased, but he would be a permanent fixture.

"Malfoy," she said, noticing the somber turn in their conversation. "You can't spend two years locked away in a house. It's not natural, nor is it healthy."

He turned away from her, bringing over the milk, sugar, and spoons.

"This is the least of the unnatural things that have happened in my life, and it most likely will not be the last."

His voice was hard and his voice was laced with a sardonic edge. She watched as he dropped a single cube of sugar into her tea and poured a spoonful of milk into the mug.

"You know how I take my tea."

Malfoy looked at her. To his astonishment she sounded angry about this fact. She even looked angry that he was privy to this information.

"If you know that and insist on flaunting everything you know, then why can't you help me?"

"We've been over this," he told her. "I've made up my mind. It's safer if no one knows anything. Don't ask me again."

"Don't you dare boss me around! You are in my house, under my watch, because I vouched for you. You will tell me what I want to know, and you will tell me in excruciating detail. You owe me."

"I owe you?" he asked. "I hate to break it to you Hermione, but I didn't need you to come to my rescue. I'm not like your precious house elves that require your intervention, no matter how unwelcome it is. All I had to do was tell Lupin what happened, maybe throw in some inconsequential information from the future, and I would've been grand. You are not the only one who wants to know what happens, but you certainly are the only one who needs to know everything."

"I don't need to know everything."

Malfoy scoffed rudely.

"I don't!" she insisted. "I just don't want you here. You've changed everything. Maybe the future was good, or could've been, but you being here ruins that. Now nothing is the same."

"You have no idea."

"No, I don't, because you won't tell me."

"Now you'll get to see how the other half lives, those who aren't brilliant and annoyingly so."

"This isn't some kind of experiment," she said. "I can assure you I don't like surprises or mysteries."

"You prefer facts."

"Yes, I do."

"Because they are calculated, precise, and never wrong."

"Exactly."

"Because there is nothing remotely intriguing about them, nor is there anything exciting."

"That's not true."

"Uncertainty is not as frightening as you think it is."

"I am not afraid of uncertainty," she said indignantly.

"Yes you are. It's why you overcompensate. It's also why you're infinitely unhappy, despite the pretense you let on."

"I am not unhappy," she started, ready to launch into a defense against his unsettling assertion of her character.

"You are."

He was unflinching with his gaze, his eyes fixed on hers.

"You can lie to everyone else, but not to me. You blink when you lie."

"Rubbish."

"Or when you're nervous. You just blinked now."

"It's a human imperative to blink, Malfoy!"

"You were lying."

"I was not."

"Blinked again."

"Get out!" she yelled, crossing her arm.

"You also get flustered. You don't like when people call your bluffs, but you were never very good at lying to begin with. It's because you're too good. You don't have a cruel or wicked bone in your body."

Hermione cleared her throat, looking away from him.

"What are you trying to prove?"

"Prove? Nothing really," he shrugged. "Just reassuring you that my constant presence here is not something to dread. I can be pleasant."

"Not that I'm aware of."

"The good news is I already know you very well and you have all the time in the world to get to know me."

"Oh no," she said. "No, no, no. I told you, you're going back."

"And I told you I wasn't. Send me back, and everything will pan out like it did before I came."

"If you would just tell me how everything ends, we could both win. You could go back, and whatever happens that's clearly frightened you can be avoided."

"You make everything so difficult and complicated. Is it too much to ask if you would just, for a moment, consider what you want? Forget the well-being of the wizarding world, everyone knows you carry that on your shoulders. What do _you_ want?"

"To find a solution to the insurmountable problem you've created."

"Wrong."

"I know what I want, Malfoy."

"You don't."

"Okay then, what do I want?"

"Company. Companionship. A reprieve from your chronic loneliness."

"I have companions, many of them."

"No better than vagabonds"

"Mrs. Weasley comes for dinner almost every night and—"

"Admit you're wrong."

"I will not."

"Your parents are gone, your best friends are gone. You get rid of me and who else is there?"

Hermione glared at him. He was hitting below the belt now, using her parents as a means to an end.

"I don't care if you know about my parents, or if you know how I take my tea, you can't change my mind. I'm sending you back, without your help if need be."

He needed to make her understand without actually saying it. If he left, she would die. It was an inevitability. At this point, though, she probably wouldn't have believed him if he told her. She made it perfectly clear he was not to be trusted.

"I'm going to give you a fair warning. I will do everything in my power to prevent you from sending me back."

Hermione's self-satisfied expression turned sour almost immediately. Malfoy left his untouched cup sitting on the table and grabbed the pile of clothing sitting on the edge of the table.

"Thank you for the clothing."

"We are not finished with this conversation."

"I know."

* * *

"Hello?"

"I'm up here!"

Remus closed the door behind him. He followed the voice that carried down from the study. Hermione was walled in by piles of books obstructing his view of her. All he could make out was the wild curly hair peeking out over the tops of the old, dusty tomes.

"More Horcrux research?" he inquired.

"No, it's research of a different kind."

Remus picked up a book on the nearby table, scanning the title. _The Nuances of Magical Objects: Misuses and Malfunctions_.

"I take it you spoke to Irma."

"Yes," Hermione said absently, feverishly scribbling in a notebook. "Madam Pince was incredibly intrigued by Malfoy's situation and offered to lend me some books."

"I'm surprised she let these books out of her sight let alone the school."

"Some of them are her private collection, but most are from the Restricted Section so no one will miss them."

"How is Draco?"

"Well, he's completely irritating, so I would venture so far as to say he's quite well."

"Ah, I take it you had an...altercation already?"

"If you consider his refusal to help me by providing any information at all an altercation, then yes. He's proven to be quite useless thus far."

"I would think he's trying to minimize the impact of his arrival, perhaps give you some space."

"I don't think so," she laughed, looking up at Remus. "He made me tea this morning and then insisted he would not be leaving me alone by any stretch of the imagination."

"Tea? A nice gesture, maybe."

"He knew how I took my tea. He brought up my parents! He knows that much, the least he can do in exchange for being here is help me."

"You know better than anyone that time is precarious, and the future is even more so. Draco is right in being selective with what he shares."

"He's flaunting it in front of me!" she nearly yelled.

"Perhaps you shouldn't be quite so hard on him, it might not be as intentional as you think."

Hermione looked at her old professor skeptically.

"I thought I heard the dulcet sounds of your voice. Either we have company or you've finally gone mad."

She gave Remus a pointed look as if Malfoy had already disproved his defense of her new house guest. The younger wizard stood in the doorway, a picture of ease. He had changed into some of the clothing Hermione had given him, a pair of faded jeans and a maroon jumper. It was odd for her to see him so casually dressed but it didn't appear to phase him.

"I have company," she corrected him.

"Hello Draco, how are you doing?" Remus asked.

"Very well," he said, smiling in Hermione's direction.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," he lied.

"Good, good. I spoke to Poppy earlier, she said she would come by to check on you before the end of the week."

"I'll be here," he grinned.

"Yes," Remus smiled. The joke was wasted on Hermione who scowled at him. "Well, I should be off. I have to stop by the Ministry. It appears Umbridge is up to something."

"Umbridge?" Hermione asked, forgetting all about the books in front of her.

The last time she had seen that foul woman she was disappearing into the din of the Forbidden Forest.

"Yes. It seems she's been installed in a new position, no doubt Voldemort's doing. It's getting much easier to sift through who is and who isn't working under Voldemort's orders, but the problem is now putting a stop to them. I'm afraid Umbridge's new Commission is gaining momentum, and if we don't get a handle on the situation soon we might not be able to stop it."

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, growing more worried each passing moment. She noticed that Malfoy's cheery disposition had disappeared entirely. He had a deep frown etched into his features.

"The Muggle-Born Registration Commission."

Remus looked at Malfoy in surprise. Hermione shook her head, "What is it?"

"It's not official yet, we've only just heard rumors."

"How long?" Malfoy asked.

"I heard from Kingsley moments before I arrived."

"The Daily Prophet, have they reported anything?"

"No. How long do you suppose we have before the news breaks?"

"Not long. Not that it'll matter. The Prophet has already been taken over, no doubt. It'll be a ridiculous spectacle, a rubbish front page article about Muggle-borns stealing magic from wizards. All of this is just a formality, official or unofficial it doesn't matter. Umbridge probably has Snatchers out rounding Muggle-borns up already."

Hermione stood up and walked around the desk. "Will someone please explain what is going on?"

It was unnerving to see Remus defer to Malfoy's knowledge of the matter. Remus was always well-informed and always two steps ahead, but his role had been usurped. Here, Malfoy was on point, driving the conversation with things he couldn't possibly know unless it had already happened before.

"Umbridge is the head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. It's a Ministry front, a sham, a way for Voldemort to get Muggle-borns right where he wants them. There are supposed to be investigations into how Muggle-borns came by their magic, or rather how they stole it from other witches and wizards. It consists of an interview which always ends with a lifetime sentence to Azkaban or exile from the magical world."

"It's a good way of getting rid of our supporters," Remus said.

"Exactly. Everyone who would rally against Voldemort's blood purity tirade, gone in one fell swoop."

"What's a Snatcher?" Hermione asked.

"They're no better than Death Eaters, they're lap dogs, bounty hunters. They're the ones who round up Muggle-borns in hiding, even murder them if they don't cooperate."

"Is there anything being done by the Order to stop this?" Hermione asked, looking to Remus.

"No, we've only just heard of this. If what Draco is saying is true, though, we need to have a meeting. Immediately."

"Mrs. Weasley is making dinner tonight. I imagine others will be stopping by."

"I'll send for everyone," Remus said, turning to leave.

He hesitated, turning to look at Malfoy. The young wizard's expression was still hard and cold.

"Thank you, Draco."

Malfoy nodded as Remus rushed down the stairs and out the door.

"How do you know so much about this?" Hermione asked.

"Because right now, I'm a Death Eater sitting at Voldemort's table."

"Did you have a part in this, in the murder of innocent people?"

"No, but I might as well have," he said. "I was complacent, I just stood around idly. I can't decide what's worse."

"You've just changed the outcome by telling Remus, though."

"I'm going to do a lot more than that."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	6. Chapter Six: In Lieu

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I know, I know. You're probably thinking "another chapter already? how is this even possible?" For those of you that aren't thinking that...bless your souls. I know I usually have an ungodly wait time between updates, but all the wonderful feedback inspired me. So feel free to send me some reviews! *hinthint* I love hearing what everyone has to say and it doesn't hurt as a motivational tool. NOW. This new chapter is the real deal. We're getting the ball rolling...and by ball I mean plot. Serious forward motion. I'm pretty thrilled about it. I'm already planning the next chapter as I write this...okay, I'm getting a little ahead of myself. But I hope you lurrrve reading this chapter as much as I loved writing it!

P.S. Excuse any grammatical/spelling errors you come across and feel free to let me know where they are if you spot them. I was in quite the hurry to get this posted for all you lovely readers.

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX  
****IN LIEU**

"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another."  
_Anatole France_

The evening passed in a familiar fashion. Dinner with all of the usual suspects—the Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks—followed by a meeting of the Order. Everyone bickered and disagreed vehemently over dinner and tea, but a rough plan was eventually ironed out. The Order would devote their remaining resources to the Ministry regardless of their limited reach. The Death Eaters could easily identify every member of the Order and Voldemort's minions were inextricable from the Ministry at this point. Every major office was held by a Death Eater or some poor soul being threatened into submission, or worse, having fallen victim to the Imperius Curse.

The information Snape could provide the Order with was limited as well. If he shared too much, if they could anticipate and stop every move Voldemort made, Voldemort would grow suspicious. In demanding so much of Snape, the Order risked losing any and all information, they ran the risk of causing Voldemort to collapse his inner circle out of paranoia, and they continually risked Snape's life. Sacrifices had to be made in order to stop Voldemort once and for all. They had to let on that they were one step behind the dark wizard to be in tandem with him.

What the Order really needed was another spy. Twice the information, half the risk. Having two sources within the walls of Voldemort's stronghold at Malfoy Manor would lessen the chance that Snape would be made as the mole. Without another spy, without someone on the inside, there was little the Order could do to stop, or slow down, Umbridge.

Throughout the contentions, Draco said very little. He had put in his two cents and given them all the pertinent and essential information they would need in devising a plan. He eased himself back in his chair and watched the familiar faces, listened to the familiar voices. It was the same company he had grown accustomed to, if not fond of. He caught himself being remiss, though. He was forgetting his place in the grand scheme of things, almost going so far as to enjoy himself despite the grim topics of conversation. He had to continually remind himself that the familiarity he felt was not shared by others in the room. While he was at his leisure, they were on edge, unused to his presence. This was only commonplace to him.

His behaviour throughout the evening prompted everyone to exchange incredulous glances behind his back, hardly able to believe what they were seeing. First when he helped Mrs. Weasley with dinner and again when he helped clean up. Everyone was surprised with his willingness to share information at the meeting, but they didn't question his contributions. The Order needed every bit of help they could get. Their shock and awe didn't upset him, rather it irritated him. Their unfamiliarity with him made the process slow. He had to perform niceties and provide them with reassurance that wouldn't have been necessary if they knew the truth.

That was the precarious nature of the truth, though. It was at once good and bad, and terribly ugly.

The kitchen slowly began to empty as the night stretched on and earlier topics of debate were addressed a third or fourth time to no avail. They had discussed their course of action at length, how to go about removing Umbridge from her position, infiltrating Voldemort's Ministry defenses, minimizing the damage and loss of life that could occur in such a high-risk location. They had to get creative with what few resources they had available to them. Hermione didn't say it, but she figured they would need some kind of miracle if they were to succeed. Morale was yet another thing the Order seemed to be lacking and she'd be damned if she would be the one to point it out by sharing her doubts and negativity.

The lingering few finally decided to call it a night and start fresh tomorrow after they had, had some rest and time to mull things over. People filtered out of the kitchen and into the darkened hallway, signaling their leave with the quiet click of the front door. At some point after midnight, the only remaining people in the room were Hermione, Draco, Lupin, and Snape. The Weasley's had said their farewells shortly before and returned home. Hermione bade Lupin and Snape a goodnight, disappearing somewhere upstairs while Draco saw them off.

"Thank you for your help this evening, Draco. It's certainly appreciated despite the reactions of some," Lupin said, pulling on his coat.

The greying wizard was trying to make amends for the actions of others. If there was anything Draco had learned about Lupin in the past few years, including those at Hogwarts, it was his desire to make everything right. It didn't matter whether or not he was the cause of the problem, or if it involved the safety of perfect strangers, Lupin went out of his way to take the brunt of every hit. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, he took the well-being of innocent people personally. The stress showed on his face, but so did the overwhelming kindness. The deep worry lines on his forehead were matched, if not surpassed, by equally deep laugh lines at the corner of each eye.

"It's not a problem."

"Well then," Lupin smiled. "Goodnight Draco, Severus."

Snape nodded at Lupin as he turned and disappeared into the night. The shrill of crickets filled the unusually warm evening. It was odd weather for late September. Here he expected rain but instead their was an unsettling warmth, like the calm before a storm. The sound of Apparition drew him from his thoughts and brought his attention back to Snape.

The older wizard said nothing because there were no words necessary. He only gave Draco a pointed, knowing look before sweeping out into the street. It seemed that sharing objective information was acceptable, even beneficial to everyone in the Order, but the over-sharing of personal information was not. That's what that warning look was for. He was no doubt worried that Draco would have an error in judgement. Snape was looking out for him but Draco couldn't help but feel as though the older wizard were patronizing him in some way. Did he truly believe Draco would concede to the wishes of the Order and endanger them all? The insult would have added to the injury if he could bring himself to care enough. He knew Snape's intentions were all well and good, but there were more pressing matters at hand than his relationship with his mentor.

As he closed the heavy door to the warm and sticky heat, he sighed. Hermione was going to go mental, she was going to have an absolute fit when she finally cornered him. He had spent the better part of two days convincing her that he couldn't tell anyone anything and here he'd gone and shared everything he knew about Umbridge's pet project. There was no living with her after this. He knew, beyond a reasonable doubt, that she would not leave him alone until she got what she wanted.

He made his way upstairs to the study where she would be, and sure enough, when he rounded the corner she was sitting in a chair, facing the door expectantly.

"Before you say anything," he said, preemptively cutting her off as she opened her mouth to irritate him. "Don't."

Sauntering into the room, he collapsed onto the worn couch facing the warm, crackling fire. Why he bothered to say anything, he didn't know. She was going to lay into him regardless. Not only did she not trust him, but she clearly had no respect for his wishes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the dull ache in his head. He heard her intake of breath and mentally prepared himself for her ruthless onslaught.

"You are a git. You said you couldn't tell anyone what happened, and yet everyone knows what Umbridge is going to do."

"I should have clarified. I can't and I won't tell you how I ended up here because it involves information that is personal."

"What you said today is personal! I'm sure the effects of Umbridge's Commission will reach far enough to hurt a lot of people, and those people would undoubtedly consider it personal. Perhaps it's not personal for you because you're a heartless bastard."

"You don't know anything about Umbridge, about me or about anything that's going to happen because of this. Presumptions do not make you intelligent, they make you ignorant."

He should have known there was a personal imperative for her as a Muggle-born. Her sense of right and wrong was overwhelmingly concrete whereas his was pliable. Hermione would do the right thing in even the most dire of circumstances, no matter the consequences. Naturally, she would bring up the morality issue to guilt him into doing what was considered right. It was unnatural for his future self to exist alongside his current self. It would set things right if he were to simply allow her to send him back, but if he left people would die, a lot of them. He could save at least some of those lives and make the future a better one.

As much as he wanted to imagine this was for the common good, the betterment of the wizarding world, it was largely for selfish purposes. No matter how much she loathed him, he couldn't let her die. He could save her without her ever knowing that she died at all. Even if she would never care for him as she did in his future, he couldn't change what had happened to him in another life. He was in love with someone that could very well never love him back.

"And I didn't tell anyone anything that they wouldn't have figured out in the near future. I just hurried them along and prevented a bad situation from getting worse," he said.

"Preventing a bad situation from getting worse. Huh, sounds a lot like what I'm trying to do, but you won't let me."

"I'm not keeping you from opening your books to find your precious answers."

"You already know the answers. If you could tell me, you could...how did you say it...hurry me along."

"I don't know how or why. I just know what happened before."

"That's just as pertinent, Malfoy."

"Is it?" he asked.

He looked at her skeptically. Doubt stained his mouth like a dry, bitter red wine.

"Yes," she said. A flurry of movement followed her affirmation. She was up and searching the towers of books stacked all over the room, flipping hurriedly through pieces of parchment. "One of the books Madam Pince lent me was quite insightful."

"Insightful?"

That did not sound promising.

"Here it is," she said, flipping it open to a page bookmarked with a quill. "Insightful, yes. Time-Turners are temperamental at best and it's nearly impossible to identify what went wrong. Here it says that uncontrollable or unexplainable magic is often inextricable from the emotional state of the witch or wizard. It makes perfect sense."

"It does?"

"Of course it does. Think of a Patronus Charm, for example. It requires the recollection of a happy memory. Or the Unforgivables. They not only require immense skill to perform, but unless you can access a state of true hatred and anger, they're useless. Some of the most powerful magic is entirely dependent upon emotion."

"So how would emotion have effected the Time-Turner? It was broken before I laid my hands on it."

"That's not possible. A broken Time-Turner doesn't function at all. The magical properties are, for the most part, contained within the sand. The hourglass would have to be intact for it to work."

"I don't know what to tell you, it was broken," he lied.

It was only cracked. It didn't break until after he had turned it, and even then he wound up two years in the past. Hermione stared at him intently.

"You're lying."

"I wish I were."

"Do you know what you do when you lie, Malfoy? Nothing. You put on this perfectly vacant, stoic expression. You try so hard to appear ineffectual but your eyes give you away. I can almost see you working things out, meticulously calculating everything."

She was getting louder and louder as she spoke, grabbing random books from the surfaces in the room out of anger. How he managed to get under her skin with the smallest of suggestions or the simplest look drove her mental. He was just an insufferable git in and of himself, no snide remark necessary. The sound of him breathing was enough to send her over the edge.

"I'm impressed."

"You know what? You don't have to tell me. I'll find it out another way," she threatened.

"You will?" he asked, laughing.

Her determination wasn't necessarily laughable, but it was endearing. He had all the cards in his hand but she ardently believed she still had a chance of winning. She looked furious, standing in front of him with an armful of books and rolls of parchment, her hair wild and unruly.

"Your cousin tells me you're quite a skilled Occlumens."

His expression hardened almost instantaneously.

"I'm also an advanced Legilimens."

"Well," she said. "If you can learn it, I most certainly can."

"I wouldn't try if I were you."

"Are you going to stop me?"

"I will."

"You don't even have a wand."

"You should know better. I don't need a wand."

That caught her off guard. Her confidence faltered slightly.

"What?"

"Wandless magic."

Her question was redundant. She already knew how he was able to perform magic without his wand. Hermione had always known he was intelligent. In school he was second in all their classes, only to her of course. She also had to remind herself he was two years older, with two years of practical, advanced magic under his belt. His response came as more of a shock than anything. Draco was still awfully young to have achieved a competency in wandless magic. Then again, he could have been bluffing to deter her from her plan.

Then it clicked. That was it, wandless magic.

"Wandless magic," she murmured. "Wandless. Magic. Wandless..."

"Yes," he said, unnerved by her rapid change in disposition. In a matter of mere seconds she had jumped from certainty to confusion to discomfort to...what looked like confusion. He knew better, though. It wasn't confusion. It was the look she got on her face when she found an answer. Her eyes were unfocussed and she was staring off at nothing in particular. She was somewhere else entirely.

"Wandless magic! Malfoy, you're brilliant," she said, hurrying to the bookshelf on the far side of the room.

"One minute I'm a git and the next I'm brilliant. I'm beginning to suspect the sincerity of your insults. I think I'm starting to grow on you."

She ignored his light jest entirely and flipped through a particularly large, dusty tome that looked as though it hadn't been touched in decades.

"When does wandless magic occur most?"

"In cases of underage magic."

"Exactly! Accidental Wandless Magic. In most cases, children have no control over their magic and often use it unintentionally or subconsciously. It can happen when they are upset or in danger!"

She looked at him expectantly but she hadn't exactly spelt it out for him.

"You believe Wandless Magic is the solution?"

"No, it's the problem. Your problem to be exact."

"I'm not a child, Hermione. I have control over my abilities."

"You frequently practice Wandless Magic, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then you have easy access to it. The more you practice it, the easier it comes to you. But I think that your control of such magic was compromised when your life was put in danger."

He stood up abruptly.

"How do you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That I was in danger."

Hermione panicked slightly. He looked furious, volatile even. His jaw was clenched and, his eyes were hard and unforgiving. She didn't realize until now how threatening he could be. The Malfoy she knew from Hogwarts was an insipid little cockroach. Whatever happened in those two years between his younger and his older self had turned him into someone that commanded a space rather than simply filling it.

"Oh," she said, her cheeks burning a bright shade of scarlet. "You told me. Must have been a slip of the tongue."

"Nice try," he snapped. "How do you know."

Hermione sighed. No matter how much she disliked him, she didn't want to cause a rift between him and his only apparent confidante. Malfoy had made it perfectly clear, though, that lying was not an option. Although he was still a git, he appeared to have developed some sort of moral boundaries, no matter how crude they were, in the past two years.

"Snape told me."

She had never seen a look of surprise grace his features before. Malfoy had the emotional range of a teaspoon, at least the Malfoy she was familiar with. He had maybe five or six expressions: surly, broody, smug, ignorant, dumbfounded, and several small variations of those.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I thought you just said Snape told you."

Hermione cleared her throat. "He did."

"When?"

"Before the meeting. Lupin informed him that you were being...difficult. He told me what you told him."

"Perfect," he snapped. "It appears that you can't trust anyone in this ruddy house. What did he tell you?"

"That Voldemort and Bellatrix tried to murder you."

"That's all?"

"That's all? There's more, isn't there? Of course there's more!"

"So you think because I was in mortal danger, some emotional response along the lines of self-preservation inflected the Time-Turner, intensifying its ability? So I wound up two years in the past rather than a couple of days?"

Hermione exhaled loudly to signal her irritation with him. While changing the subject did not dismiss her previous inquiry, it did segue into a possible answer for his current presence at Grimmauld Place.

"Self-preservation is a behaviour, not an emotion. The emotion you experienced would've had to have been much stronger than fear, though."

"Answer the question, Hermione," he sighed.

"Fine. Something like that, yes."

"And how does that solve your problem?"

"It's your problem too, you know," she snapped. "I believe...if we can replicate the conditions under which you used the Time-Turner, you can be sent back."

"Wonderful. I'll just wait until someone tries to murder me again—while I'm carrying a Time-Turner of course—replicate the innumerable emotions I was feeling, and hope that I wind up back in that library two years from now."

"Library? You mean the study, right? This room."

"Out of all that all you managed to catch was the word 'library'?" He asked, avoiding the question easily.

Clearly Snape hadn't told her the extent of his jump in time, namely the vast distance he somehow travelled using the Time-Turner. Malfoy figured that would put an easy stop to her ridiculous plan. The likelihood that she could send him back, under the best of circumstances, was incredibly small. What happened to him was a fluke, a cruel, cruel twist of fate and nothing more. Her limited knowledge of what happened further decreased the already miniscule chance it might work.

"No," she said, glaring at him. "I heard what you said. I don't appreciate the sarcasm, Malfoy, I'm just trying to help."

"No, you're meddling."

"Meddling implies I'm causing a problem. I'm merely fixing the one you've managed to cause."

"Witty," he deadpanned.

* * *

Hermione and Draco fell into a strange routine. During breakfast they would pass each other in the kitchen as both were early risers. For the most part, though, they spent their mornings apart, in separate rooms, busy with separate concerns. She was almost always in the study, combing through old texts tediously, trying to solve the mystery that was his presence at Grimmauld Place. He was usually in his room with the door closed, tearing away the horrid history that was plastered on the walls of his room like a macabre wallpaper. Salvaging an empty notebook and a quill, he took to creating two distinct timelines.

The first timeline was the one he was most familiar with: his own life. It started even before his arrival at Grimmauld Place, before the September of 1997.

The second timeline was empty except for a single date at the start: October 3, 1997.

Mapping out both timelines was the only way to see what damage he would undoubtedly do, what changes he would inevitably cause. It would keep him sane in the hysteria that was about to occur, and it could make sense of what he had to change in order to prevent history from repeating itself. Draco had to be sure, though, that Hermione would never find it.

He pulled the rickety chair sitting at his desk to the windowsill. Although it wasn't quite a bay window, the sill was deep, framed by an old and ornate trim. Checking to make sure the door was closed, he stood on the chair and pulled the heavy drapes aside. Draco carefully examined the crown moulding around the window's top edge, running his hand over the uneven surface. The dark paint was heavily chipped and battered, but he could make out a distinct crack that had spread from top to bottom in the far left corner. Draco pried the wood off to reveal a hollowed section of the moulding. He rolled up the small leather-bound notebook and placed it in the hollow before forcing the moulding back into place. Fixing the drapes, he dragged his chair back to the desk and made his way downstairs.

Around midday they would often run into each other in the kitchen, in search of a bite to eat or a cup of tea. Despite his urge for something a little stronger than tea, Draco never bothered her for anything in particular. He made due with what was provided for him. Rather than disappear to their own corners of the house, though, they would spend the afternoon in the study, minding their own in a comfortable silence. There was little for them to talk about other than the previous night's company or business regarding the Order. Draco maintained his secrecy, sometimes causing a spat between the two, but it never progressed into anything more than a bit of mindless bickering.

The sense of ease Hermione felt had been unintentional. The only thing Draco did was put her on edge, but his behaviour was so radically different from what she was used to, it was hard not to fall into a sense of security. He was so different from the boy she once knew, so much so she began to wonder if she truly ever knew him at all during their time at Hogwarts. Draco was clearly a multifaceted, three-dimensional human being, something she had never given him credit for. If he wasn't, there was no way he could have become the man he was now, the man sitting in front of her, staring off into the fire.

* * *

The strange humidity of late September had finally given way to a vicious storm. The thunder cracked with an unsettling clarity and the jagged shards of lightning cut through a clouded night sky. Hermione was sitting at the large desk in the study, watching the rain mercilessly assault the window. The glass panes were sheer walls of water through which she could make out nothing more than indistinct shapes. She could hear more than she could see. The symphonic range of the rattling window was accompanied by the hushed shaking of leaves outside as the trees were crippled by the wind. The atmosphere was very different inside, though. The warm, crackling fire cast a warm glow about the room. The hollow ticking of the second hand of the grandfather clock told her it was nearly midnight. The weather kept her from focussing on her research, and without much else to do she considered going upstairs to attempt sleep in the midst of the storm.

She glanced over at Draco. He looked different, though the change was impossible for her to name. Physically, he looked the same as ever. Tousled blonde hair, eyes the colour of slate, a strong jaw, broad shoulders. But there was something strange in his demeanor. His body seemed tense, his muscles taut and rigid, as though he were anticipating an attack. His was leaning forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his chin balanced on his knuckles.

"Are you alright?"

"Hm?" he murmured, looking up at her.

He looked worried. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were drawn together tightly.

"You seem a bit preoccupied."

"Restless I suppose," he said. "Because of the rain."

"The rain?"

Of course she was skeptical. Anything he said was met with some degree of skepticism and doubt from her. Despite the arrangement they had become accustomed to, it seemed she didn't trust him any more than she had when he first arrived. Draco wasn't surprised by this, though. Last time it took him a very, very long time to earn her trust. This time would be no different. If anything, his secrecy would keep her from ever truly trusting him. She had to know, though, on some rational level that it was for her own good.

"Perhaps it's this house, you've been here for nearly two weeks. I'm surprised you've lasted this long, pent up here with nothing to do."

"I've managed to keep myself busy."

"With what?"

"Reading," he lied.

He'd been slaving over the timelines, trying to remember the specific dates of everything and anything important that had happened in the last two years. Timing was everything.

"Anything interesting?"

He couldn't help the crooked grin that pulled at the corner of his lips. In spite of everything, she was making small talk.

"Terribly interesting. What have you been reading?"

She glanced down at the large book sitting in front of her.

"I wish I could say the same. It's quite dry I'm afraid, histories of ancient artifacts."

"I never thought I would see the day that you found a book boring."

Hermione scowled, arming herself with a number of choice insults. She was more than capable in an argument and he should've known better than to pick a fight. They were in a small, confined space which hardly encouraged an easy friendship. There was little privacy and they had to maneuver animosity, prejudices, and secrets in order to maintain a sense of civility. Being rude and discourteous did nothing to help the situation. It was petty of him to be insensitive.

When she looked at his expression though, she stopped. He wasn't smirking or scowling at her, he was smiling. It was a small, almost imperceptible smile, but a smile nonetheless. Perhaps it was the way the firelight caught them, but his eyes were bright and playful, mirthful even. Draco wasn't being cruel, he was being light-hearted.

"You're teasing me."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"I am."

The way he was looking at her made her uncomfortable. His gaze was direct but impossibly soft, so different from the hardened expression she was familiar with. Kindness and playfulness were not traits she was quick to associate with him. It was wrong and unnatural. She shifted in her seat slightly, averting her eyes.

"I'm not boring just because I read, you know."

"You, Hermione Granger, are the furthest thing from boring."

The command with which he spoke surprised her, but not nearly as much as the suggestion of intimacy unsettled her. The certainty in his voice was equally as unnerving. He was more sure of her character than she was, but she could think of him as nothing more than a stranger. It was unfair, really. He seemed to be so well acquainted with her and she knew nothing about him because he refused to tell her.

Hermione couldn't look up from her book, instead flipping the page absently. The words made little sense to her. They were marks on a page, something to focus her gaze on. She could feel his eyes fixed on her and mentally scolded herself for her weakness, her inability to reciprocate his forceful stare.

The attitude in the room had changed rapidly from one that was largely innocuous to one much more serious. The easy conversation had turned into a tension that, as much as she hated to admit it, excited her. It had been a long time since anyone looked at her with such intensity. Ron had been gone for months and the letters she got from him and Harry were devoid of intimacies. She understood, though. The rational faculty of her mind was able to put the search for Horcruxes, the demise of Voldemort and the ultimate salvation of the wizarding world, before her own personal needs. But the irrational part of her mind, the part inextricably linked to her body and her instincts, preyed on her loneliness and her desire for companionship. It was the voice whispering in her ear now, beckoning her to look at the man sitting across the room.

Her musings were interrupted by a knocking at the door. All of the warmth in the room seemed to disappear altogether. Draco got to his feet stared at the dark landing with trepidation. Hermione slowly rose out of her seat. No one knocked on the door at 12 Grimmauld Place.

"It's the middle of the night," she said, trying to peer out the window.

Draco started towards the landing and Hermione hurried after him. Rather than heading downstairs as she anticipated, he turned and began to retreat upstairs.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I need you to go downstairs," he told her. "And answer the door."

"What's wrong?" His playful disposition had been shadowed by his typical, surly expression.

"Hermione," he said, his voice sharp. "Answer the door."

She started to remark on his sudden rudeness and his unfair impatience with her, but he turned abruptly and continued upstairs. She stood on the landing, watching him disappear into the gloom until she heard the faint sound of a door closing. This is what whiplash must feel like, she thought. Being hurled from one extreme to another with such rapidity, such force, that all that remained was discontent, a sense of being dazed and confused. The knocking at the front door persisted and Hermione drew her wand from the pocket of her jeans. She turned on the lights as she made her way downstairs.

Her small hand curled around the large brass doorknob. She took a deep breath and braced herself, tightening her grip on her wand. Hermione wrenched the door open and nearly dropped her wand.

"You," she said.

He was drenched to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead. Rivulets of water cascaded down his face, droplets catching in his long eyelashes. He was shaking furiously. When he opened his mouth to speak, his breath came out in white puffs. Hermione had never seen his skin look so sallow. He was so pale he looked translucent. His whole body was tense, his fists clenched.

"How did you..."

She couldn't find the words to finish her sentence. Standing in front of her was the seventeen-year-old Draco Malfoy.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	7. Chapter Seven: Misplaced

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Let me just begin this by saying...sorry for the cliffhanger! In repentance, I offer this: A LONG CHAPTER! Or at least it's longer than past chapters with lots of fun dialogue and progress :) I hope I'm forgiven!

I'd also like to take this opportunity to despair a bit over the characters. I'm sure you HP fans will all notice a bit of out of character behaviour. Okay, so the future Draco is a bit more pleasant, a bit kinder, and much more playful. He's been socialized...like a puppy is after you bring it home and train it...where as the younger Draco is not (wow, terrible analogy. I hope it makes some sense!). The younger Draco is...well...you will see! I hope you enjoy the chapter though, I put a lot of thought into it!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**  
**MISPLACED**

"Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves."  
_Henry David Thoreau_

Hermione turned a dial on the stove absently, her eyes fixed on the blonde sitting at the kitchen table. He sat facing the warped doorframe and the now dark entranceway she had lead him through moments before. She was grateful he couldn't see her. Like some sort of horrific car accident, she was unable to look away. Her perverse fascination with the sheer improbability and absurdity of the situation quelled the voice in the back of her head, the rational faculty of her mind.

All she could see were his hunched shoulders as he towel dried his hair. As soon as he had stepped foot in the kitchen, Hermione had busied herself before he had the chance to say anything, before they could be enveloped by awkward silence. She had pulled a clean towel from the basket of laundry sitting on the far end of the table, thrusting it into his arms. He pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. She anxiously shuffled about, making tea, not that he had asked for any, not that she wanted any.

Hermione's head ached with the sudden feeling of deja vu.

Her mind frantically worked over the facts, over the little information she had. It wasn't much given Draco's—the future one, that is—secretive behaviour since his arrival a few weeks earlier. That was reason enough to believe she wouldn't get anything meaningful out of his younger self, let alone any pertinent information regarding Voldemort or the Death Eaters. That was, of course, assuming his presence at 12 Grimmauld Place meant he was a turncoat. She had no idea why he was here, and now of all times, in the thick of things.

"I can get you some dry clothing," she said, breaking the uneasy silence.

He turned his head a fraction of an inch in her direction, acknowledging her kindness, but he said nothing and curtly nodded his head. He hadn't said anything since she had opened the door to see him on the step. Following her initial shock she quickly composed herself and beckoned him into the house and out of the rain. As he passed her in the doorway she could feel the chill radiating off of his body. It was an odd sensation, feeling the cold ebbing from him rather than warmth.

Hermione could spot the bottom of the unholy brand marring his left forearm, peeking out from the edges of the white fabric of his oxford button down and black sweater. The shirt was plastered to his skin, pale and blanched by the cold and the wet. The sweater looked like it was made of an expensive material, cashmere maybe. The rain had stretched the fine fabric, though, and it hung off his frame.

Harry had been right all along, it seemed, and Snape had joylessly informed them that Malfoy, following in the footsteps of his father, had taken the Dark Mark. Not only was he a Death Eater, but he sat at Voldemort's table as a member of His innermost circle with the likes of his aunt Bellatrix, Snape, Pettigrew, Avery, Macnair, Lestrange, Nott, and Dolohov.

It was then that the severity and the gravity of the situation began to impress upon her. Hermione couldn't imagine why he was here of all places and now, not when it meant his death warrant.

The whistle of the kettle tore her attention from him and to the empty tea cup in front of her. She didn't know if he took milk or sugar with his tea. She really didn't know anything about him other than her highly biased and, prejudiced observations and her dealings with him at Hogwarts. As she was beginning to understand, though, he was capable of change, even if it was only minor. She turned off the stove, poured the water, and sat the cup in front of him.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"No."

After a moment of hesitation, he looked up at her briefly. "Thank you."

Hermione smiled, shifting slightly. She was so consumed by her thoughts she forgot what she was supposed to be doing. Instead, she watched him closely. Something was off. His movements were slow and measured, lethargic almost. It looked oddly familiar to her.

He didn't touch his tea. She couldn't see his face and it was beginning to irritate her. If she couldn't trust him to tell her why he was here or what his intentions were, the least she could do was see his expression. If the eyes were the window to the soul then there had to be some truth in them. Words were like misnomers, disingenuous and arbitrary. The distance between intention and confession was almost too great to bridge. Draco kept his eyes focussed on the towel he held in his lap.

"Clothes," she said abruptly.

"What?" he looked up at her.

"I'm going upstairs to find you some dry clothes."

He said nothing but watched her hurry upstairs. She would find some wearable clothing for him, but it certainly wasn't her first priority. She was going to have a talk with the other Mr. Draco Malfoy who had shut himself in his room upstairs. It seemed there were a great many things that he was keeping from her, but this was the last straw. If he was willing to share information concerning the Order, that included her. As it were, he didn't seem to see it that way.

Hermione stormed up the stairs, making more noise than necessary. She passed the study on the first landing, marching up another set of stairs to the second landing and then a third set of stairs to the top floor.

She didn't knock, but flung open the door. Draco didn't seemed surprised by her rude and sudden entrance. He was sitting at his desk, his feet propped up on a pile of books, his ankles crossed. He looked quite at his leisure. She stepped into the room without an invitation, slamming the door behind her, sending violent tremors up the length of the old doorframe.

"Hermione."

"Why didn't you tell me?" she nearly shouted.

"You're a big girl, I figured you could handle it."

"Oh, I can handle it," she assured him. "But you could have warned me or given me some notice first!"

"I could have."

"You haven't changed at all," she hissed, adorning an expression akin to disgust. "You're just as self-serving as ever."

"Self-serving?" he laughed, a bitter edge undermining any humour in the expression. "I've done nothing but help you since I wound up in this house!"

"You call that help? You haven't told me anything and now you leave me to sort out this mess by myself?"

"Well I can't exactly go downstairs and explain everything to myself now, can I Hermione?"

His sarcasm only fueled the fire. Hermione was red in the face now, an angry flush creeping its way along her neck and staining her cheeks a vibrant shade of scarlet. All the muscles in her body were tense and her fists were clenched at her side. Draco's body language was strikingly similar to her own. He no longer looked relaxed in his chair, but had his feet firmly planted on the ground, glaring at her.

"Don't be dense, you know that's not what I meant, Malfoy."

She had used his surname. After weeks of niceties and strangely pleasant company, she reverted back to her suspicion of him at the first instance of uncertainty. One step forward and two back.

"I could've informed the Order but instead you spring this on me!"

"This is exactly how it's supposed to happen!"

"No," she snapped. "It's how you want it to happen. What you want isn't always good or right, Malfoy. Other people need to be consulted, to be considered, in your decisions. The world does not revolve around you, as you clearly think it does."

"You don't understand."

His frustration was evident. He raked his hand roughly through his unruly hair, shaking his head.

"Then explain it to me. Just tell me what's going on."

"Are you mentally deficient or are you just deaf? Haven't you listened to a single word I've said? I can't tell you. I won't tell you. That's it. You have to trust me."

"No," she said, stepping back. "I don't."

"Too bad, Granger. You don't have a choice," he said, walking over to her.

Draco grabbed her arm roughly. His hand was warm and large, but surprisingly rough. She could feel callouses on his palm and fingertips. He dragged her over to the door and pulled it open.

"You're hurting me," she said, wrenching her arm from his grasp.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice unforgiving and low. He towered over her in the doorway. She had never been unsettled by him, but his frame was domineering and the repressed anger in his voice was evident. "I've just denounced my family, my friends, I've turned my back on everything I've ever known and now I have a price on my head. I've quite literally ruined my life and I'm sitting downstairs in the kitchen. Get off your bloody, self-righteous high horse and show a little human compassion. Now get out."

He shoved her out of his room and onto the landing, slamming the door and enveloping her in darkness.

"Rotten bastard," she mumbled, turning on her heel and stomping down the stairs towards Harry and Ron's room.

* * *

For a few seconds, Draco thought he could hear shouting. The voices were distant, nothing but a faint hum, but they were emphatic and animated. As quickly as they had escalated, though, they had disappeared altogether. Shortly after there was a sharp snap and he could hear someone coming downstairs. He pressed the towel to his face again, spotting the soft material with blood.

He wasn't alone for much longer. Hermione appeared in the doorway holding a pile of dry clothing.

"They might not fit, they're all I could find."

If he cared at all he didn't acknowledge it. Instead he reached into the pocket of his trousers. It hadn't occurred to Hermione to have her own wand at the ready or to be wary of him. His movements were slower still, slower than they had been earlier. First he pulled out a damp, rumpled piece of parchment and set it on the table. Next he pulled out his wand. It was very different from her own. While hers was delicate his was sturdy, hers was ornate and his was stylistically simple. His was hawthorn wood while hers was vine wood. It was fitting, though, considering how different the two of them were.

Draco held the wand by the tip, though, not by the handle. His one hand clutched his side tenderly. Hermione realized he was surrendering his wand to her, exposing himself. He was willingly putting himself in a position of submission and vulnerability. Whether or not it was a trick, though, she couldn't be sure.

"I need help."

Hermione slowly reached out and took his wand. It felt heavy in her hand. The handle was a smooth curve absent of any ornament or texture. It was worn from use but well cared for. She nodded her head. Help, that was something she was willing to provide, especially for the down trodden. It was her crux, her weakness, and at times such as these, her fault. Upstairs, Draco had been betting on it.

"We can do that. Why don't you go upstairs and get changed—"

"No," he insisted. "I need help."

"Yes, well, once you get dressed—"

"I mean," he interrupted, pained by what he was about to say, what he was asking of her. "I can't. Get upstairs. I need help with..."

Hermione followed his gaze to his side were he had the towel pressed. She followed the line of his body, noting the water dripping from his black trousers was pink. It was starting to stain the floor. She hadn't noticed on the step because of the rain or earlier, in the kitchen, because of his black clothing, but he was bleeding. Then she realized what he was saying.

"Oh," she said, clearing her throat. "Alright."

She put his wand on the table and hurried about the kitchen, finding a cloth and a basin to fill with warm water.

"What happened?" she asked.

There was a long pause before he spoke.

"Who were you talking to upstairs?"

Fair enough, she thought. If he didn't want to talk about it, she certainly wasn't going to force him. And she certainly wasn't going to tell him anything about her unusual house guest. Not unless the older Draco gave her reason to. It was the only leverage she had.

"Okay," she said, setting the basin down on the table. "Lift your arms."

He managed to get them just over his shoulder before wincing, unable to lift them any higher. Hermione grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it upwards in one swift motion. Draco barked out a few choice curses and leaned back in his chair, letting his head fall back. She could see the tendons in his neck straining against his pale skin as he clenched his teeth.

"Fuck, woman," he snarled.

She tossed his ruined sweater on the table, ignoring his outburst. The side of his shirt was heavily saturated with blood.

"Take off your shirt," she said pulling out her own wand.

Draco raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her artlessness and she rolled rolled her eyes.

"Do you want my help or not?"

Draco unbuttoned his shirt slowly, gingerly shrugging it off his shoulders. A nasty bruise was beginning to form on his right side around the cut. It was an ugly, mottled spot of red and blue that was beginning to purple.

"I think you've some broken ribs."

"Wonderful. I think I could've figured that one out on my own."

"I don't have to help you. I could let you bleed to death in this kitchen."

He glared at her, reaching for his side again. Hermione noticed the many scars littering his torso. They were thin scars, the lines clean and straight. It was most certainly the work of a curse. Draco was watching her reaction carefully. Her eyes travelled the length of his torso, taking in the sheer number of them, and her eyes softened. Her expression looked almost like pity. It wasn't an emotion he was familiar with, nor was it one he wanted expressed towards him. He didn't need her pity. It didn't matter than he was in over his head, his pride and vanity would not be accosted by her of all people.

"They didn't hurt," he lied. "They only look terrible."

Why he felt the need to justify himself to her, he didn't know. Perhaps it was that she was staring at him like some ruddy animal at the zoo or like some charity case that needed fixing up.

"Hm?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"The scars."

"Did Harry..."

He nodded. Harry had told her what had happened in the bathroom between him and Malfoy. At first, she couldn't quite believe that Harry had been so reckless. _Sectumsempra_ was almost as bad as the Unforgivables. It was deadly, and even if one was healed the effects were permanent if Dittany wasn't applied to prevent scarring. Healing spells couldn't heal wounds entirely, especially those caused by particularly Dark Magic.

"I'm going to mend the bones," she told him. "It's going to hurt quite a bit."

Draco stared straight ahead, taking his hand off the tender skin so she could reach the injury with her wand. He wiped the blood on his trousers, nodding and inhaling deeply.

"_Brackium Emendo_," she murmured.

The sound of bones snapping back into place, resetting themselves, and mending filled the otherwise silence kitchen. Draco choked back a grunt, keeling over in his chair and immediately clutching his side again. The bruise began to fade, signaling the spell had been cast properly.

"It's going to be sore for a while, I'm afraid."

She turned her attention to the bleeding. She fixed up his side, turning to the particularly nasty gash on his shoulder, carefully mended with the _Vulnera Sanentur_ spell. She proceeded to mend several small ones with a simple _Episkey_.

"Your side and your shoulder will scar," she told him. "I'm out of Dittany."

"What are two more scars?"

Hermione nodded, turning her attention to his face. There was a cut just above his left eye, one she recognized. On the older Malfoy, though, it was nothing but an old scar. A white line that severed his left eyebrow in two, a clean line where the fine blonde hair no longer grew. She was careful not to stare at him, focussing solely on her task. The same could not be said for Draco, though.

He shamelessly observed her features up close, at a distance he had never been before. He could make out all of her freckles, the smattering along her cheeks and on the bridge of her nose. He could see how thick her eyelashes were. Her colour of her eyes wasn't nearly as flat and plain as it looked from afar. Instead, it was a complex medley of warm shades: browns, golds, and a minute, almost imperceptible bit of green.

"There," she said, observing her work.

Draco reached for the cloth, soaking it in the warm water before wiping away the blood staining his skin.

"How did you find the house?"

"Dumbledore."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

Draco handed her the piece of parchment sitting on the table. Although the rain had caused the ink to run, she recognized the looping, elegant penmanship immediately:

_If ever you should need a safe haven Mr. Malfoy, you are always welcome at number 12 Grimmauld Place._

"He was the Secret Keeper," she murmured.

Dumbledore remained the Secret Keeper of the Headquarters until the day he died. The Order had unanimously agreed Hermione would be Secret Keeper after his death. While the house had been left to Harry by Sirius, him and Ron were somewhere in England searching for Voldemort's Horcruxes. So Hermione had made 12 Grimmauld Place her home, sending her parents to Australia with no memory of her for their own safety. As Secret Keeper, she would be at the house at all times, and only she would be able to tell people where the Headquarters was, where the house was located. Without the address, they were invisible to the outside world. It seemed Dumbledore still had a few tricks up his sleeve, though.

"He must've given it to you before he died," she told him.

"I found it in a book," he said, pulling on the grey shirt she had brought him.

"A book?"

"After he died."

"He must've known."

"Known what? That I was a coward, that I'd run and hide like some sort of traitor?"

"That you'd come to your senses."

He looked pointedly at her.

"I think it's a bit late for that," he said, gesturing to his left forearm.

There, on alabaster skin, was the ugly black brand. The Dark Mark, a snake spilling out of the mouth of a skull.

It disappeared as he pulled on a heavy red jumped Molly had knitted for Harry a few Christmases ago.

"Why did you come?"

Draco just looked away from her.

"Either you tell me or you'll have to tell the Order."

Draco remained silent.

"Fine. Who did that to you?"

"Bellatrix."

"Your aunt?"

"Not anymore."

"What happened?"

"I hesitated," he told her reluctantly. "I had to kill Dirk Crewsswell."

"Did you?"

He looked at her, unflinching. "Yes."

He didn't appear solemn or apologetic, nor did he seem conscious of any wrong he had committed. It wasn't the absence of morality, though, it was an emptiness that plagued him. His eyes were dead, devoid of life. Vagrancy and purposelessness stalked him, haunted him, coming ever closer and casting a darkness over him, darker than even Hermione was aware of.

"You didn't want to, though."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Draco Malfoy was many things. He was prejudiced, ignorant, hateful, but he was not a murderer.

"You sound so sure. Bellatrix thought the same. According to her, I have no backbone."

Hermione snorted, eliciting a unforgiving expression from Draco.

"Sorry," she murmured.

If there was anything she had learned in the past two weeks, it was that Draco not only had a backbone, but he was impossibly stubborn.

"So you left."

"I wasn't going to. I'd have to be absolutely out of my mind to consider it...but it turns out she was right. I am spineless. All it took was a bit of persuasion on her part. Just a bit."

"Persuasion?"

"Persuasion," he said pointedly.

Bellatrix had persuaded him to leave. It hardly made sense to her. Hermione was about to press on and stopped, her mouth forming a silent 'O' of understanding. Persuasion was putting it delicately. Bellatrix had a single means of getting what she wanted and when it failed, she didn't hesitate to murder them. She had tortured him and hurt him because he was human, because he faltered.

"I told her I'd had enough with her, with our precious Dark Lord, with all of it. And then she told me I was more than welcome to leave. If I could get out alive."

Hermione had nothing to say. She had found herself in a number of scrapes with Harry and Ron over the years, and she was no stranger to life-threatening situations, but Bellatrix was mad beyond any notion of madness. She had no moral compass, she had no capacity for mercy or compassion. She was hatred incarnate, warped and corrupted into a monster that found joy in the sufferings of others.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said.

He nodded, reaching for the jeans she had brought him.

"I'll show you where the bathroom is," she said, getting up from her spot across from him.

Hermione took him on a tour of the house. It was a long ways away from the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but she imagined there was a warmer, more welcome atmosphere at Grimmauld Place. The house wasn't haunted by Voldemort and his minions, by the memories of all those he had killed. It was a home, a makeshift family, a place where people would give him the second chance that so many others would not.

She showed him the study on the second floor, bypassing Harry and Ron's room. On the third floor she pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He changed quickly, meeting her back out on the landing. Hermione showed him to the spare bedroom across the way, immediately next to hers.

"What's up there?" he asked, looking up the dark, crooked staircase.

"Nothing," she lied. "Just spare rooms."

He knew she was hiding something. She had, had a row with someone earlier. Someone else lived in this house. Draco was in no position to be insistent, though. He could only be grateful for sanctuary, a roof over his head, shielding him from the rain and the cold, the storm outside.

* * *

The next morning Hermione helped Mrs. Weasley with breakfast but her mind was elsewhere. She constantly looked to the door, fearing he would walk in at any moment. Hermione hadn't told anyone yet. It wasn't that she didn't want to, she was worried about their reactions. How would they handle this, realistically? They had to keep Draco safe, and as far as they knew, the only safe haven for him was here...with his future self living one floor above him.

"Hermione? Hermione, dear," Mrs. Wesley said, reaching for rolling pin. "I think they're quite flat enough."

"Hm?" she asked absently, looking down at the counter in front of her. She had been so preoccupied, so worried, she had flattened the dough to the point where it began to fall apart. "Oh, sorry."

From her spot at the kitchen table, Tonks peered over at them.

"You alright there, Hermione?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just trouble sleeping."

"I bet," she grinned. "Remus tells me my cousin's been a right pain. If he's giving you a hard time, I'd be more than willing to have a few words with him."

"No," she said, clearing her throat. "No, that's fine. It's alright, he's fine. Long night, that's all."

"You sure you're alright, Hermione?" Remus asked, peering over the top of the morning Prophet. It was quite useless as far as realistic news, but it did give the Order some insight into the Death Eater's agenda. "Perhaps you've taken on too much, with the search for Horcruxes and now Draco."

"I'm fine," she laughed, shrugging.

"C'mon, Hermione," Fred said.

"You can't pass one over on us. We know you too well," George said.

"So what's going on? You look like a mad woman," Fred teased.

"Thanks," she said sardonically.

"Well?" George prompted.

Everyone was listening now. They had forgotten whatever they had been doing. Remus had set the paper down, Mrs. Weasley had stopped cooking, Tonks was leaning forward in her seat excitedly. The twins looked at her expectantly.

The front door opened and Mad-Eye hobbled in followed closely by Snape.

"Brilliant," she said, panic starting to set in.

Mad-Eye would see right through her...literally. And the house as well. He'd see right through the floors, the walls, and spot the other Draco in a heartbeat. Constant vigilance. Like a Sherlock Holmes character, he would spot what was there that wasn't before, what was different, what had been hidden before anyone else. Albeit it was due to a magical eye and not keen skills of observation.

"Come along, Hermione," Tonks said. "Did you hear from Harry and Ron?"

"No," she said.

No one bothered to welcome Mad-Eye or Snape. They too were looking at her impatiently.

"Let me preface this by saying I would have told you sooner, but it happened late last night and I was able to acquire some relevant information, helpful even."

"This sound promising," Fred said, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

"Very," George agreed.

"Yes?" Remus prompted.

Hermione wiped her hands, covered in flour, on her apron and pulled from her pocket a dark, sturdy wand, setting it on the edge of the kitchen table.

"Whose is that?" Fred asked.

Snape looked from the wand to her, a curious expression on his face. He recognized the wand. Hermione knew he would.

"Draco's," Hermione said.

"But he didn't have a wand," Tonks said.

"It belongs to the other Draco," she said. "The younger Draco, the one that showed up on the doorstep last night."

A deafening silence quelled the excitement that had been teeming in the room. The news was met with similar expressions of confusion, shock, and disbelief looking back at her, waiting for more information.

The door opened and Mr. Weasley bustled into the kitchen.

"Late for breakfast, am I?"

Everyone turned to look at him, unable to quickly come to terms with what they had all just heard. Remus cleared his throat. The twins looked back to Hermione like she suddenly sprouted a second head. Snape still had a curious expression on his face. Hermione couldn't quite tell if it was anger or confusion. All of his surly expression were very similar, very hard to differentiate. Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband, opening and closing her mouth several times. Tonks's eyebrows had disappeared beneath her violet-coloured fringe.

The jolly expression on Mr. Weasley's face faded quickly.

"What's happened?" he asked. "Good lord, has someone died?"

* * *

"There's two of him?" George asked, clarifying.

"Yes," Hermione said.

"Two of him? In this house?" Fred asked.

Hermione nodded.

"One of those slimy gits was enough," George said.

"And now there are two!" Fred despaired.

"Keep your voices down," Hermione hissed.

"Yes," Remus said. "He can't know his future self is in this house."

"Hypothetically," George began.

"What would happen if they ran into each other?" Fred finished.

"Mayhem," Mad-Eye said gruffly. "Absolute chaos."

"Would they implode or disappear, like some sort of hole in time?" George asked hopefully.

"No one knows. It's never been documented," Remus said.

Mrs. Wesley shot her sons a warning look.

"This is no time for nonsense," she scolded.

"Quite," Mr. Weasley agreed.

"So what are we going to do?" Tonks asked. "He can't very well stay here with...y'know who hanging around upstairs."

"What other choice do we have?" Hermione asked.

"You can't be serious, Hermione!" Fred said.

"You want to live with the both of them? Two Malfoys? Better sleep with both eyes open, then, not just one," Fred said.

"Hush!" Mrs. Weasley snapped.

"Nymphadora is right," Remus said. "It's too great a risk. Merlin forbid they run into one another..."

"Where else can he go?" Hermione asked.

"We could persuade Minerva to have one of them at the castle, separate from the students of course," Remus suggested.

"And I suppose she'll have the time to keep an eye on him?" Hermione asked. "Professor McGonagall is overwhelmed. Not to mention the young Death Eaters roaming the halls. Suppose Draco runs into one of them? They'll kill him."

"There are other options," Remus assured her.

"Like what?" Hermione asked.

"Granger's right."

The cold, calculated voice was the most reasonable of all in the crowded room. Snape had sat for the duration of the conversation in silence, simply listening. It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd arrived with Mad-Eye.

"Pardon?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"You think they should both stay here?" Remus asked.

"You forget that Mr. Malfoy already knows what his younger self will do," Snape said. "Granger won't be handling this alone. Who understands Draco better than himself?"

Hermione watched her old Potions Master carefully. What he said was reasonable and logical, but she couldn't help but think he had an ulterior motive. Since he had arrived, Draco had been adamant that everything go according to plan, his plan. He wanted certain events to unfold in the same manner as they had before. It was obvious Draco had stayed at Grimmauld Place with Hermione in his past. It appeared that both Snape and Draco wanted to assure that would happen again. Instead of one Draco, though, she'd be juggling two.

They heard a door open and close somewhere upstairs.

"Should we speak to him?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"No," Hermione said. "I think it's best I go speak with him."

If there was anything she had learned the first time around it was that bombarding Draco with questions, allowing members of the Order to verbally assault him, didn't necessarily benefit anyone. Tempers were short and attitudes were unforgiving. The last thing they all needed was another argument. Tensions were high enough following Draco's abrupt arrival a few weeks earlier. Now they were at the breaking point with a house full of Order members and two former Death Eaters, two Draco Malfoys, living under the same roof.

"Alright," Remus said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Oh, is it that time already?"

"Sorry about breakfast, Molly," Tonks said.

"Not to fret," Mrs. Weasley assured her.

"Shall we?" Remus asked, looking to Mr. Weasley, Mad-Eye, and Snape.

"What's going on?" George asked.

"Draco gave us some insight on Umbridge's operation. We've managed to get someone on the inside, but time is running out. Security is tighter than ever at the Ministry. Before they can be spotted, we've got to be sure of what's going on, be ready to make our next move. It's just a quick exchange of information," Remus told them.

Fred and George looked a bit put down. The tedious bits never failed to bore them. It was probably better that way, though. Mrs. Weasley wouldn't be worrisome and the likelihood the twins would wind up in trouble was dramatically smaller.

"Look before you leap, right?" Tonks winked at them.

"That's the idea," Mr. Weasley agreed. "We should be going then. It's nearly half past."

"Right then," Mad-Eye said.

"How about we stop by tomorrow night to talk things over with Draco?" Remus asked.

"That should be fine," Hermione nodded.

"Excellent. See you then," he said, heading for the door.

"Bye, Hermione," Tonks waved. "Molly! Fred, George!"

The group of them left and Mrs. Weasley hurried to clean up the unfinished breakfast she had begun to prepare.

"Don't worry about that," Hermione said. "I can clean it up, Mrs. Weasley."

"Not a chance, Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley smiled.

With a flick of her wand everything found its way back to its proper place. She put the biscuits in a basket and covered them with a tea towel.

"Just put these in the oven for half an hour and they'll be grand," she smiled. "I'm sorry to leave like this, Hermione, but we should be getting home now. I'm expecting Bill and Fleur will be by shortly."

"That's alright," Hermione said, seeing the three Wesley's out. "Tell them I say hello."

She wished them goodbye, gently closing the door behind her. Beyond the wards surrounding the house, Hermione could make out three faint cracks. As it was every morning after everyone had left, the silence was sudden and overwhelming. But this time, Hermione wasn't alone. Far from it. She had two similar, but very different, guests upstairs.

She figured the best course of action was to wait until one of them came to her. The future Draco wasn't stupid enough to cross paths with his younger self. Like Snape had said, no one knew what Draco would do next better than himself. After all, he had already lived this life once before. Hermione climbed the stairs slowly, thinking over the precarious nature of the situation. They were three mice living in a shoebox. The two blonde wizards could not, under any circumstances, run into each other. There was one bathroom, one common area, and one kitchen. The only spaces they had to themselves were their rooms.

Hermione turned into the study, navigating herself around the couch, the coffee table, and the piles of books to her desk. She sat down and opened the book Madam Pince had left her, The Nuances of Magical Objects: Misuses and Malfunctions. It was a lovely book of good quality. The cover was a dark shade of evergreen with gold embossed letters. The pages were heavy and think, the ink raised on the yellowing sheets. Although it had been kept in impeccable shape by Madam Pince, no doubt, the age of the volume was beginning to show. The edges of the pages were ragged and uneven, and a perpetual layer of dust clung to the cloth hardcover and the bindings.

Hermione had come across a curious passage a few days earlier, but she didn't quite know what to make of it:

_The hourglass does not merely contain the sand of time, but directs it. The complex magic of the Time-Turner controls time in a linear structure. The sands funnel down through the hourglass and when turned, they funnel upwards. Though instances of Time-Turner malfunctions are rare, and recordings of such instances are rarer yet, there are times when the linear trajectory of the sand is disrupted. A crack in the glass or a rupture in the container that enables the sand to flow freely in any direction is correlative to travel, not only through time but through space as well. With no receptacle to temper the magic within the sand of a Time-Turner, one could theoretically transcend space, could begin at point A and end at point B. The magic of time travel, though, is as dangerous as it is precarious. Without the linear composition of time created by the Time-Turner, there is no way for a witch or wizard to control their destination._

"What are you reading?"

Hermione jumped violently, dropping the book and letting out a shriek. Her heart jumped into her throat, beating erratically, and she looked up with wide eyes. Draco smirked. He was sitting on the arm of an overstuffed chair, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a red jumper and the scar through his eyebrow was still pink. It was the younger Draco.

"How long have you been there?" she asked, breathlessly.

"A while."

"And you didn't think to announce your presence?" she asked, irritated by his haughty appearance. Hermione bent down and picked up the book. She placed it in a drawer and out of sight. The last thing she needed was him asking questions.

"I said your name."

"You did not."

"I did. I called your name. Clearly you were engrossed in your book. Can't say that I'm surprised. I doubt you'd ever get bored reading a book."

"What?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.

His voice seemed to echo in her ear, nearly repeating an earlier sentiment uttered the previous night: '_I never thought I would see the day that you found a book boring.'_ Only it wasn't the same voice. Well it was, but it belonged to a Draco two years older than the one sitting in front of her. Although they were very much the same person, it unsettled Hermione to hear such similar opinions from two people she regarded as very different. Two years was a long time, two long years in which one could change.

"You read. A lot."

Hermione's face burned. "I like to read. Is that a crime now?"

"Do you constantly have to know everything?"

_'You are not the only one who wants to know what happens, but you certainly are the only one who needs to know everything.'_

"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" she asked.

He looked at her, confused. Draco had no idea what she was talking about.

"Nevermind," she murmured. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Some of the Order are coming by tomorrow to speak with you."

"Brilliant," he said ineffectually.

"Don't worry, it'll be fine."

"I'm not worried."

"No?"

"I'm not completely useless to the Order. I was a Death Eater for a reason."

"Ah," she said.

Hermione averted her eyes and began to gather her notes.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"That you're a Death Eater?"

She looked up to see him nod, his eyes trained on her, waiting for her reaction.

"No," she said truthfully.

"Why not?"

"Because you're not the only person who's done something terrible or something that they regret. No one is entirely good, Malfoy."

"You are."

She stopped leafing through pages of parchment sitting on her desk and looked up at him.

"You help bloody house elves," he said, looking away from her and quickly backtracking. "Which is completely ridiculous, by the way. You think you can undo centuries of wizarding history by knitting them socks?"

Hermione opened her mouth to interject.

"Yes, yes, I heard all about your crusade to free the house elves at school. Knitting tea cozies for hats and hiding them under pillows. All the Slytherins had a good laugh about it in the common room. Some things, Granger, are better left the way they are. They like the way things are, they don't need you interfering."

"Interfering! What a load of rubbish! Those poor house elves don't know anything other than servitude, it doesn't mean they're happy with it. At least with a different life they could choose which they prefer instead of being forced into it."

"How do you expect them to choose for themselves? Do you think it's easy to abandon everything you know? They can't be sure what will happen to them when they leave everything behind. There are consequences!"

Somewhere along the line, she had touched a nerve. It occurred to Hermione that they were no longer talking about house elves. If that was the only way Draco could articulate his feelings and his fears, by hiding them in plain sight, then Hermione wasn't going to stop him. If he didn't find a way to release the fear and the panic that he had bottled up, he would only become a danger to himself and everyone around him, a walking time bomb.

"Yes, there are. There are also consequences for standing idly by! Isn't it enough to trust yourself and your decisions, to try to make the most of what you have?"

"No, it's not. Not when you don't know who you are!"

Draco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"I think," she said softly, kindly. "If someone has the fortitude to do what's right in a world of wrongdoing, then they don't have to worry about who they are. They are already much better than they give themselves credit for."

He didn't move or say anything, he didn't even look up at her. She didn't need acknowledgement from him, though. Hermione knew that he heard her and that was enough. All she needed was for him to understand that his life wasn't over, despite what he had been taught all those years. Leaving Voldemort was not the end. No one would punish him or berate him for his mistakes, not at Grimmauld Place, not by the Order. Although she was working against years of prejudice, she was sure that he would see reason. They had done nothing by try to help him, after all.

Gathering the last of her research, she left the room and left him mulling over what she had said. Hermione went upstairs towards her room, making it to the second floor landing before colliding into something solid. She fell on her bum, scattering sheets of parchment everywhere.

"Watch yourself."

A hand clamped around her upper arm in an attempt to help her to her feet. Hermione pulled her arm away, getting to her feet on her own and collecting her notes.

"I can do it myself," she snapped.

Draco put his hands up in surrender. "Great, what's wrong now?"

"Are you genuinely concerned?" she asked. "Or are you just asking?"

"Aren't we in a mood."

"It's your fault!"

"My fault? What did I do?"

"Everything! You're arrogant, proud, rude, and don't think for a moment that I've forgotten this morning!"

"This morning?"

"Yes! You ordered me around like I was your serf, insulted me, and then proceeded to manhandle me!"

"Oh, that," he said. "You're still upset about that?"

"Upset? Upset? You may brag about your knowledge of the future, Malfoy, but you've proved to be nothing but completely useless!"

"You're the one who wanted me here. This morning you told that lot downstairs it was best I stay here. You vouched for me. Twice now."

"How did you know that?" she asked, looking at him suspiciously. "Were you eavesdropping?"

"No. You told me."

"I did no such thing!"

"Well, you will."

"Not anymore."

"So," he said, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "Why are we whispering?"

"Because you are downstairs, in the study."

"Ah," he said, looking down at the mess of notes in her arms. "What's all this, then?"

A thought occurred to Hermione which blossomed into a plan, a poorly conceived plan, but a plan nonetheless. They were at a stalemate. Hermione needed information from Draco if she was ever going to send him back to his own time, information he'd made it clear he was not willing to share. As it turned out, though, the passage she had stumbled across in Madam Pince's book contained information valuable to him as well. He wanted to prevent her from sending him back almost as much as she wanted to return him to his proper time.

"Nothing really," she shrugged. "Notes on a curious passage about Time-Turners I found in a book that Madam Pince loaned me."

Hermione moved to walk around him and into her room but he grabbed her upper arm again, pulling her in front of him like a rag doll.

"What did you find?"

She shook her head slowly, glaring at him. Draco released his grip on her arm, fearing her sour mood would flare up and with it he would not be able to find out what she had learned.

"Hermione," he said, struggling to remain calm and collected. She was purposefully dangling this in front of him, and she was enjoying it. Immensely.

"Yes, _Draco_?"

"Don't be coy," he said. "Tell me what you've found."

"You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

"Come off it."

"You. First."

He glared at her, his jaw clenched. Their eyes were locked. Hermione was not letting him off that easy.

"Fine," he hissed.

The sound of footsteps broke the tension, instilling a sudden panic. Hermione looked down at the narrow staircase that curved ever so slightly. She turned to Draco, standing in front of her. There were only three doors on the landing. The furthest was the bathroom and one belonged to the Draco now climbing the stairs behind them. The closest door, her door, was slightly ajar.

Draco was staring, transfixed, at the stairs, waiting for his younger self to appear at any moment. Hermione shoved the papers into his hands, drawing his attention. He looked down at the crumpled parchment and then to her, nearly groaning when he recognized her expression. She was biting her bottom lip lightly and had a slight frown on her face. This would not be pleasant, at least not for him. She planted her hands firmly on his chest and shoved him violently, with as much force as she could muster. He tumbled backwards, first crashing into a door before catching the edge of the dresser and finding himself on a hardwood floor.

Grimmauld Place was old. It was at once the worst and the best thing about the ancestral house. The hinges of Hermione's door had rusted out of neglect, making it difficult to open and close with ease. Fortunately, the door was inclined to swing shut of its own volition because of this. Draco had crashed into the door with such force it had ricocheted off the wall behind it and slammed shut just as the younger version of the blonde wizard appeared at the top of the landing.

Draco looked at her and then the door behind her with a wary expression.

"If you're hungry," she said, straightening her jumper and flattening her wild curls. "There's food in the kitchen."

She quickly turned and slipped into her room, careful to open the door only slightly and click it shut behind her.

"She's a nutter," Draco murmured, shaking his head and sauntering downstairs.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	8. Chapter Eight: Advice

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I'm woefully sorry about the long wait for this update, but even amateurs suffer from...WRITER'S BLOCK D:

I was worried that my spiraling pit of despair would be enough for me to give up on the story. For the life of me, I couldn't bridge the two parts of the story. I had written the beginning and the end, but I had no way to tie them together in a way that seemed organic. Everything I tried was horrendous. It was SO obvious I was just sticking bits and pieces in that empty void that didn't belong. Then, INSPIRATION + rapid-all-night writing + shoddy editing (sorry, excitement and an excess of caffeine!) = the chapter you now have before you!

I know, I know. Your next complaint = the story is moving along at a snail's pace. But pleeeeeeease understand all this character development is necessary for da rooooomance. And we all want good romance, right? RIGHT!

OKAY! Without further ado...enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT  
****ADVICE**

"We can be Knowledgeable with other men's knowledge, but we cannot be wise with other men's wisdom."  
_Michel de Montaigne_

Draco opened his mouth to berate her. He had a colourful arrangement of choice curse words ready to hurl at her, but she shushed him, pressing her index finger to her lips. He ground his teeth in irritation, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his back. The corner of her dresser had jabbed his still-tender muscles and his collision with the hardwood floor only worsened the pain. His body seemed to refuse to fix itself ever since his jump back in time. Healing without the aid of tonics, potions, or spells was a painfully slow process that required a degree of patience he did not possess. As if inextricably liked, his magic was as effected as his body by the malfunction of the Time-Turner.

Though he had yet to practice magic since his arrival at Grimmauld Place, he could still feel something was terribly wrong with his magical core. Everything was out of sorts, like disrupted electrical channels. He had no use for magic, not while cooped up in the rundown house, but if ever he did need it in the near future there was no telling what would happen. His magic was volatile, untempered. It was made worse by the fact he no longer had a wand.

After the sounds of footfalls descending the stairs finally disappeared altogether she turned her attention to him.

"Are you out of your bleeding mind, Granger?"

Her pleasant expression quickly turned sour.

"Unbelievable," she hissed. "I just saved you a world of trouble and you're still an ungrateful prat."

"I could've done without the bruising."

He picked himself up off the ground, carefully observing the familiar room. It looked nearly the same as he remembered. It was a warm and inviting room, so different from the rest of the house. The heavy velvet drapes had been replaced with sheer curtains, allowing the dim winter sun to light the room. The wallpaper wasn't nearly as tattered as it was in the rest of the house. Her bed was neatly made, her bookshelf full of colourful volumes organized and alphabetized. The desk was free of clutter other than a few photos. He recognized the occupants of some photos: Potter, the eclectic Weasley clan, the Order, students from Hogwarts.

There were a couple muggle photos that didn't move, photos he recognized immediately. They were photos of her parents, but she was in none of them. She had wiped herself from their memories. The static photos were all she had left of them. At least until this nightmare was over, until she could go to Australia in the hope of retrieving their memories.

The only differences he could spot were absent personal belongings, photos and trinkets that she would eventually acquire. That was all.

Hermione began gathering her notes. He had dropped them in his fruitless attempt to catch himself as he fell.

"I don't want to argue anymore," she said.

He sat on the end of her bed, watching her carefully.

"Neither do I."

"Good," she said, standing up. "We're in agreement, then."

She blew a stray curl out of her face and put the untidy pile of parchment on her desk.

"Right," she crossed her arms, staring at him sternly. "I have some questions for you."

"Then you'll tell me everything you know," he clarified.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Why did you have my Time-Turner?"

"I took it."

"You stole it?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Why?"

"It didn't belong to the person who had it."

Technically, he was telling the truth. It didn't belong to Bellatrix. She had taken it from Hermione after murdering her, but he had no intention of telling her that. Hermione didn't need to know the whole truth. All he had to do was give her enough to satisfy her.

"So you didn't take it from me?"

"No."

She took a moment to consider what he had told her and register how honest he was being with her. Hermione was no simpleton. His answers were quick and direct. There was no thought process, no hesitation or consideration. He was being purposefully evasive.

"Why didn't I have my Time-Turner?"

"I was taken from you."

"Who took it?"

"A Death Eater."

"Which one?"

"I don't know. The terribly bad one in the black robe, I suppose."

"Malfoy!"

"Next question."

"Who was it, Malfoy?"

"Next. Question."

She gritted her teeth, reminding herself to remain calm.

"What did you use the Time-Turner for?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Does that question even merit an answer? It's a Time-Turner. I'm sure you can figure that out on your own."

"Don't be cheeky," she snapped. "You were a mess when you turned up. You were bleeding and you were on fire, for God's sake!"

He glared at her.

"I used it to escape."

"Yes, yes," she said, rolling her eyes. "You said as much at the first meeting. Be specific."

"I didn't have my wand and I was locked in a room with Death Eaters. They were going to kill me. I had no other options and the opportunity presented itself, so I used the Time-Turner."

"What did you do?" she asked. "I mean, you are a Death Eater, aren't you? Why would they want to kill one of their own?"

As she spoke she gestured to his left arm, resting at his side.

"I had a change of heart."

"So you do have a heart?"

"Ha, ha," he deadpanned.

"You mean to say your allegiances changed?"

"Yes."

"Wait," she said, stopping her train of thought. "You just said you were trapped in a room with Death Eaters."

"Did I?" he feigned innocence.

"Yes! That means they were here!"

"Keep your voice down."

"Don't patronize me, Malfoy."

"I'm not."

"Do you think I'm an insipid fool?"

"No, Hermione."

"Then why are you lying?"

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are!" she snapped. "I know you weren't at Grimmauld Place when you used the Time-Turner!"

"Oh," he said, careful to feign skepticism. "You do?"

"I know you're lying" she said, snatching up her notes. "It's right here, all of it. Proof you weren't here when you used the Time-Turner. Proof that Death Eaters were never at Grimmauld Place. Proof that you've made up your entire story."

Well, not all of it, he thought sardonically.

"You forgot to create wards against time travel, Hermione. You made a mistake, that's all. Everyone makes mistakes. It's not nearly as complicated as you want to believe it is."

"No, no!" she said, shaking the parchment. "A Time-Turner is a construct, just an apparatus that controls the movement of the sand. It's shaped like an hourglass to force time vertically, in a line. It can only manage a small jump backwards in time, that's it. Time is all you can control. When the hourglass breaks, though, there's nothing controlling the movement of the sand, of time itself. You could go anywhere at anytime you wanted. You could transcend space."

"Can you hear yourself, Hermione? Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? You should know magic has its limits."

"Time travel is an unpredictable type of magic. It's impossible to fully understand. You can't dismiss this as a possibility!"

"Say you're right, say there is some unknown variable that undermines everything we know about time travel and magic. How did I end up here? What part of the Time-Turner controls the place you end up?" he asked. "Of all the places in the world, why here?"

It was the impossible question that plagued him endlessly, that kept him awake at night. She was right, of course. It was a reasonable explanation, but not one that explained how he wound up at this time, in this house. He wasn't willing to admit defeat and chalk it up to fate. When it came to magic, there were still mysteries, still unexplained phenomena, and this was one of them. There was a reason he was here, at this point and time. He just didn't know what that reason was yet.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know _yet_, but I'm working on it."

She turned to her desk and put her notes down, flipping through the pages, searching for the answers that would redeem her. She could feel the blood rush to her face in a wave of embarrassment. He thought she was crazy, no doubt, and to some extent he was right. She was grasping at straws. There was no tangible proof that it was even possible to transcend both space and time with a Time-Turner. It was the only compelling explanation she had come across after weeks of research, though. She refused to believe it was something as simple as an oversight on her part, a protective enchantment she didn't think to cast.

"Give it up, Hermione," he said.

"I won't."

It wasn't enough to simply say it. She shook her head and turned to look at him. He had to see that she was serious, that she was adamant. This man, this version of Draco Malfoy that claimed to know her so well, had done nothing but impel her to ignore her suspicion, to disregard this most curious circumstance. It seemed he didn't know her at all, because Hermione Granger was not someone who would compromise, submit, or accede. He should've known that.

"I know you're keeping something from me," she said. "I just don't know what."

"Have you ever considered that it's something you don't want to know?"

"I'll be the judge of that."

He sighed, slowly rising to his feet.

"You'll wish I never told you."

He took a step closer to her.

"I can handle it."

She felt the edge of her desk against her backside.

"It'll change everything," he told her.

Another step toward her.

"It's my life."

It was your life, he thought.

"You're going to hate me more than ever," he said, quieter now.

"Tell me."

She had no where else to go as he approached her, his steps slow and measured. Her voice had waned to little more than a whisper. When he was less than a foot away from her, he braced himself on either side of her, resting his palms on the cool surface of her tidy desk. He was much taller than her but she held his gaze. She would not be intimidated by him.

For reasons she refused to dwell on, his proximity to her was causing her heart to beat erratically and her breathing to quicken. He was looking a her like an auctioneer readily appraising a valuable artwork. He looked at her with admiration and respect, but it was laced with something much more volatile. At school she would sometimes catch Ron staring at her with that same gleam in his eye. It was at once wicked and innocent, wild and calculated. She couldn't say exactly what it was, but her uncontrolled and irrational physical response to that very expression of his unsettled her.

"You've put Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells_ before Garino's _Hogwarts, A History_."

She had been expecting some grand confession, some terrible truth. For a brief moment, she tried to understand the greater, significant meaning of his words. When she finally blinked and understood what he was telling her, her excitement was extinguished by a violent animosity and hatred.

She reared back, slapping him as hard as she could. The resounding smack, the sound of her hand striking the side of his face, was loud in the quiet room. The tingling sensation of blood rushing to his face quickly gave way to a stinging, biting pain. He didn't step away from her, but kept his head bowed.

"You were right on one account," she hissed. "I do hate you."

For a moment she didn't think he'd move, but he dropped one arm, allowing her to slide out from between him and the desk. His free hand went to his face, gingerly touching his burning flesh. Although it was her room, she left quickly and without pause. He should've been the one to leave, but she couldn't be near him for a moment longer. She couldn't be held responsible for her actions. He was infuriating and audacious, he was an even greater prat than she could recall.

She stormed down the stairs and to the kitchen, breathing deep, trying to calm her nerves. She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and stepped down into the kitchen. The other, younger Draco sat at the kitchen table with a copy of the Prophet in front of him.

"Shit," she breathed, starting at the sight of him.

She was so preoccupied with the other Draco, she'd forgotten all about his doppelgänger. Her hand went to her chest as she focussed once again on finding a semblance of calm.

"Language, Granger."

She ignored his quip.

"Has anyone stopped by?"

"No."

She checked the time.

"Are you hungry?"

He didn't take his eyes off the paper.

"Can you even cook?" he asked her.

She seethed, biting her tongue lest she lash out at him. It was his fault, though. He was like an ignorant child. No, he was much worse than that. He was like an arsonist, gleefully tossing petrol on an open flame.

"Do you want something to eat or not, Malfoy?"

"As long as it's edible, Granger."

Hermione rolled up her sleeves. The kitchen at Grimmauld Place was hardly designed for muggle methods of cooking. Although she was well versed in domestic spells, she much preferred to cook without magic, the way her mother had taught her. It was just one of the many ways she held on to her parents, kept them close to her, despite the distance between them. They might be miles away and they might not remember her, but she would not forget them. She would not let them slip into obscurity.

She rummaged around the cupboards, pulling out some old pots and a casserole dish. Draco turned the page, scanning the dismal headlines. He heard the distant sound of water running followed by the familiar clicking of a stove. A harsh, foreign scratching interrupted his reading though.

"What are you doing?"

She looked up at him, startled by his voice. His eyebrows were drawn tightly together in a frown, an expression of irritation and confusion.

"Lighting a match," she said, striking the head of the match against the box.

"Why?" he asked, baffled.

"So I can turn on the stove, why else?"

She spoke slowly, as though speaking to a toddler. When she finally managed to light the match, she held the small flame beneath the burner. It burst to life, licking the bottom of the old pot.

"You're a witch. Use your wand."

"Magic isn't necessary for everything, Malfoy."

"I suppose that would be your opinion on it."

She could feel her blood boiling. She had to will herself not to turn around and beat him over the head with a skillet.

"My muggleborn opinion as opposed to your pureblood one?"

"Yes."

"Isn't the use of magic for everyday household work beneath you?"

"Of course it is."

"Then what exactly is your objection? You and your family have everything done for you. You're waited on, hand and foot, by the poor house elves you've enslaved!"

"You have a point, but don't feel threatened. Next to a house elf, Granger, your work is top notch."

"Listen," she snapped. "I am not your serf. And for all intents and purposes, this is my house, my kitchen. I will cook the way I see fit and you will eat it or starve. I wouldn't mind one less house guest. By all means, don't eat."

"Isn't someone in a lovely mood."

"Don't tempt me, Malfoy."

"Or what?" he asked, his voice suddenly devoid of any inflection or emotion. "You'll hex me? Curse me, maybe?"

He turned back to his paper, rustling the pages and finding his place once again. Hermione felt the warmth in the room evaporate. She could see his jaw clench from where she stood.

"Your threats are empty words, Granger. There's nothing you can do to me they haven't done already."

Hermione didn't push the issue any further, already sensing she was treading dangerous water. If there was anything she had learned about Draco Malfoy from their years at Hogwarts, it was his affinity for violent outbursts of anger. He had a short temper that was not to be tested, least of all now. He was still a rude little git, but he was an enigma. No one knew what had driven him to come to the Order in the first place, and no one truly knew what he had been through.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy."

Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled graciously out of her mouth. Her voice seemed loud in the uneasy silence.

"Are you expecting an apology in return?"

He looked to her now, carefully gauging her response.

Yes, she thought bitterly. Why she was apologizing for her actions when he had relentlessly antagonized her, she had no idea. It didn't matter whether or not he had been bullied, harassed, or tortured into committing the crimes he had, he had still done terrible things, unforgivable even. Hermione knew quite a few men—good men, great men—that would've held their ground. They would've refused, but Malfoy had submitted. Despite his switch, his obvious wish for redemption, there was still some part of Draco Malfoy that was terribly bad. It was the blackest of black, a Godless part of him which no humanity could touch.

"No," she lied.

His stoic expression gave way to a cynical expression, a sardonic, lopsided grin.

"You're a terrible liar, has anyone told you?"

"Many times," she sighed. In fact, he was the one who constantly reminded her of that. Well, his older self.

"I'm not going to apologize," he admitted.

"I know."

"Do you know why?"

"I don't pretend to understand anything about you, Malfoy."

"You should have some inkling."

"And why is that?"

"We're alike, you and I."

"That's brilliant," she laughed.

"You, your precious Weasley, and the famous Potter. All you Gryffindor lot, even the Order. All of you pretend to be above the violence, the bloodshed. You're all so high and bloody mighty, sitting on your painfully ironic pedestals."

"Excuse me?"

"No matter how noble your cause, it doesn't justify the terrible things you've done or will do."

"You're comparing me to Death Eaters, to people like—"

"Like me?" he snapped. "Yes, I am. Unlike you, I'm not naive. Just because I believe something is right, it doesn't mean it is."

"What the Order is doing is right! Voldemort is a monster who needs to be stopped. You don't agree?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. But murder is murder, no matter how you paint it."

"You have some audacity, Malfoy. After what we've done for you, what I've done!"

"All the good deeds in the world can't wipe your conscience clean."

"I don't have a guilty conscience. I'm not trying to buy my way into anyone's good graces, or con my way into a state of blissful ignorance."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" he asked. "That you're doing it out of charity rather than guilt?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"I wouldn't either, not with all that repressed shame just sitting there in plain view. How do you sleep at night, Granger? Because I fall asleep knowing that I've made peace with the terrible person I am."

The water began to boil over the edges of the pot, spilling onto the burner and hissing loudly. The front door opened down the hall and a familiar voice called out.

"Hermione? Draco?"

She stared at his cold, grey eyes.

"In here, Remus," she said, clearing her throat.

He appeared in the doorway, the pleasant smile on his face fading at the sight in front of him. Hermione stood close to the stove, arms stiffly at her side. Draco stood at the table, arms firmly crossed with the Prophet in one hand. They looked as if they were in some sort of standoff, staring at one another, willing the other to blink or look away first. Both unwilling to do just that.

"I'm sorry," he said, hesitantly. "Have I interrupted something?"

"No," Draco said sharply. "I was just on my way upstairs."

Hermione was the one to finally look away. She quickly put on a pleasant smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. It was frightfully fake, a facade for Remus, and one the older wizard could easily see through. He was no fool.

"Actually," he said. "I was hoping to talk to you, Draco."

"You want to talk to him?" Hermione asked, glaring at the blonde.

"I'm actually not feeling well," he lied. "I don't think I could stomach another meeting right now. Or any of Granger's cooking for that matter."

She shot him an unforgiving glare and Remus was quick to interject in an attempt to defuse the hostility between the two.

"Oh, it's not a meeting. Just an informal chat."

"A chat?" he asked skeptically.

"You know what, go on ahead," Hermione said. "I can finish this later."

She was willing to jump on any opportunity to cause Malfoy as much discomfort as humanly possible, and she knew he wanted to be anywhere else than in a room talking with members of the Order. He didn't want to declare his intentions or talk about his emotions, and he certainly didn't want to talk about what had caused him to come to them in the first place. That seemed to be exactly what was happening though, and it brought a smile to her face. His misery was her joy. She turned off the stove and left the room swiftly, taking the stairs two at a time. Waiting for her in the study were her books, a warm fireplace, and a nice spot on the couch. If that wasn't a sanctuary, an escape from the madness, she didn't know what was.

* * *

"Did you want to start?"

"Is anyone else coming?" Draco asked.

He hadn't been this close to the greying wizard since his days at Hogwarts. He had aged since then. He looked even more tired and rumpled than he remembered.

"I believe Severus is on his way."

Draco nodded.

"You don't seem surprised."

"That Severus is a spy?"

Remus nodded.

"I didn't think he was, not until that night up in the Astronomy Tower. After that I knew."

"He never told you?"

"Of course not. I'm an Occlumens, but I can't keep Voldemort out. If Severus had told me, he'd be as good as dead."

Draco couldn't be sure why Snape had never said anything to him, but he lied to Lupin to save face. Snape was one of the few people in Draco's life that knew him, that cared what happened to him. It bothered Draco that Snape hadn't trusted him enough to tell him. There were reasons for it, most likely, but the irrational part of Draco's person, the vulnerable and human part of him that cared for others, was wounded by Snape's secrecy.

As if his ears were burning, the old Potions Master swept into the house, making his way directly to the kitchen.

"Draco," he said in greeting. "Remus."

"Hello Severus," Remus said.

Snape pulled out a chair beside Remus, easing into it. Unlike the lycanthrope beside him, Snape was stiff and appeared uncomfortable in his seat that faced opposite Draco.

"You're a member of the Order, then," Draco said.

Severus nodded.

"For how long?" he asked his mentor.

"Since the beginning."

Draco nodded, mulling over the new bit of information he had attained.

"I don't need to know what it was that made you come here, Draco. That's your business, but I do need to know what your intentions are," Remus said. "I'd put it more lightly if I could."

"I'm not here to infiltrate your secret society or lure Death Eaters to this ruddy house, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, no," Remus said, casting a quick look at the ceiling. To think there were only a couple floors between the two of them, between this Draco and his older self, was ludicrous. "I'm quite sure you don't intend to harm anyone."

"Oh, you're quite sure? Not entirely, though?"

"Draco," Snape warned.

"You just want to know if I'm going to be of any use to you. If I'm going to help you, right?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Remus said.

"Well, I can't go back. I'm no use to you as a spy," he said.

"I know that," Remus said. "I wouldn't think of asking you to."

"You want information." It wasn't a question.

"If you have anything we could use," Remus said, the exhaustion and the stress painfully evident in his voice. "Anything at all, it would be appreciated. More than you know."

"On one condition."

Snape glared at the young wizard in front of him. Draco was in no position to be making demands. Hermione had made that clear from the moment he arrived.

"What's that?" Remus asked, trying to appear accommodating rather than wary.

"I will not stay locked up in this bloody house with that horrid, uncouth woman," Draco hissed.

Remus visibly relaxed and suppressed a rueful grin. Snape shook his head in disbelief. It seemed there were some things that would never change, some things that were truly irreversible.

"It's not funny," Draco said. "I might not be of much use to you and your precious Order once I go absolutely mental having listened to her shrieking all day, everyday. You might as well hand me over to Bellatrix. At least then I can go mad in peace."

"Alright, alright," Remus said. "I'm sure something can be arranged."

* * *

"You're joking."

"No, I'm afraid not, Hermione."

"I've been in this house for months and I can barely walk down the street. He's been here days and he's going on missions with the Order!"

"It's not a competition between you and him," Remus assured her.

"Please," she scoffed.

"You're our Secret Keeper. We can't risk having you in the thick of things and, Harry and Ron need you here, searching for Horcruxes."

"Fat lot of good that's done," she muttered viciously. "I'm nowhere closer to finding one than I was last month."

"Keep searching. I know you'll find something soon. You are truly the brightest witch of the age."

She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. How many times had she heard that. Each time it did little to comfort her or motivate her. If anything it was a glaring reminder that her reputation surpassed her.

"Where is he? Downstairs gloating?"

"He's in the kitchen with Severus. They've got quite a bit to discuss now that Draco is here."

"They're probably plotting against us," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

She could imagine the look of disapproval on Remus' face and held up her hands in surrender.

"I'm being unfair, I know," she said, trying to save herself from being reprimanded. "I'm just stressed."

"Perhaps if you tried to mend your relationship with Draco, you wouldn't be so stressed."

"Perhaps," she said tartly.

Hermione loved Remus and respected him. He was as good as family, but she hated it when he was right. With Dumbledore gone and McGonagall at Hogwarts, he had become the voice of reason at Grimmauld Place, the voice she heard in the back of her head when she was being irrational. He always had a solution to every problem. Unfortunately, that kind of responsibility had taken its toll on him. It would effect anyone really, but Remus still had a bright and youthful disposition that was like armor against everything that was terrible in the world.

"Just take it easy on him, Hermione," Remus said, turning to leave. "We don't know what he's been through."

Remus left her alone in the study to think over his departing words. They were wise words she'd do well to consider. A moment later she heard the front door open and close. He was right and she knew it, as much as it killed her to admit such a thing.

Hermione made her way downstairs, unsure of whether or not Snape was still with Draco in the kitchen. She'd been so upset with Remus' news she hadn't been paying much attention to anything else. Easing herself down onto the landing, she could hear their voices filter into the front hall. The two wizards were still very much engaged in conversation. She couldn't make out anything they were saying. She needed to get closer. She realized it was wrong, but she ignored her better judgement. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she stopped on the bottom stair, light filtering into the darkened entranceway. She peeked around the corner. They were sitting opposite one another, leaning in across the table. Draco was picking at the surface of the table. In that moment he looked so young to her, so vulnerable.

"How's my mother?" he finally asked the older wizard.

"She's well."

Snape's response was quick, almost too quick.

Draco looked up sharply.

"What's he done to her?"

"Your mother is fine, Draco."

"Lucius let Him defile our house and now he's let Him ruin my family. After everything she's put up with, he treats her with sarcasm and disrespect."

"It's a moot point, now."

"Like hell it is," Draco hissed.

"Calm down, boy. In everything that's happened, that is happening, does your quarrel with your father seem important?"

"We wouldn't be here if men didn't quarrel with their fathers, Severus."

Hermione realized Draco was talking about Voldemort. Tom Riddle's father was a cruel man who abandoned Tom's mother when he discovered she was a witch. His father was the source of His disgust for muggles and muggleborns. He was a wealthy muggle who had sullied Tom's mother's good, Pureblood name. It had slowly turned Tom into a raging, rather ironic psychopath, a halfblood, a sociopath with no compassion or apathy. Tom's father was the root of Voldemort's animosity and hatred, the seed which spurned the poison oak.

"You have priorities," Snape said after considering Draco's comment. "Obligations."

"To whom? The Order?"

"They've done more for you than you would've done for them."

"Yes, because they have some sort of perverted god complex."

"Lupin agreed to your wishes. You came here of your own volition so you will cooperate."

"Unbelievable," Draco said, shaking his head.

"Don't forget that I've taken the Vow on your behalf. I promised your mother I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. I will not let your boyish absurdity and fantasies of patricide be my death warrant."

"I didn't forget, Severus."

"You can only help your mother by helping the Order."

Draco nodded.

"Do they know?"

"No, not yet. Your whereabouts are still unknown to them."

"I can just picture the look on Lucius' face when he finds out. His only son, the heir to the Malfoy name, consorting with muggleborns, halfbreeds, and blood traitors—"

"Draco."

"Let's hope it kills him," he said after a long pause.

Hermione slowly exhaled. She wasn't aware she had been holding her breath as she watched from the stairs.

"Tell my mother where I am," Draco said, picking at the table once again. "Tell her everything."

"I will."

Hermione slowly eased herself off the last step, her toes gingerly touching the cold hardwood in the entranceway. She leaned forward, putting weight on her foot. The warped and aged wood creaked in protest, causing her to wince. The two men sitting at the table turned to the doorway. Hermione scrambled into the light of the kitchen, trying to recover her dignity rather ungracefully. She tried to make it seem as though she weren't just eavesdropping, despite how fruitless her attempt was.

"Just came down to make some tea," she lied, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. "Would you like some?"

"No," Draco said, following her movements with a hardened stare.

There was a sharp intake of breath. Hermione turned, peering out the corner of her eye. She couldn't see Snape's face, but he shifted in his seat. Draco reached for his left forearm, grabbing the black wool of his sleeve and hissing. His mark was burning painfully. That meant one thing and one thing only, though it no longer applied to him. He looked up across the table at the older wizard. Snape said nothing but swiftly got to his feet. There was really nothing to say in those moments of uncertainty and fear. Words of reassurance and consolation were useless, and the words 'good luck' seemed wildly inappropriate. The chair scraped roughly against the stone floor. He swept out of the house in an frenzy of billowing robes, leaving Hermione and Draco in the midst of yet another uncomfortable silence.

"Eavesdropping is not an attractive quality, Granger."

"I wasn't eavesdropping," she snapped.

"No, you were just listening in on a private conversation."

"What I meant to say," she said, checking her tone. "Is that I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

She felt the immediate need to apologize for her profuse apologies, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the mantra from slipping out of her mouth.

"I'm only trying to be polite."

"Rubbish," he said, getting to his feet. "You won't own up to anything bad you do. You try too hard to be good."

"Well, I'd like to think that's because I'm a good person. It's who I am."

"No, it's who you're trying to be, Granger," he told her, slipping his hands casually into the pockets of his trousers. "It's okay to be bad every once in a while. Be rude, be intrusive, but I don't want to hear the words 'I'm sorry' from you ever again."

"Fine," she snapped. "Does it hurt?"

"The Mark?"

"Yes, you git. What else?"

He grinned, unable to help himself. She was so much more tolerable when she wasn't walking around like a frightened little dog with its tail between its legs. He would take their arguments over serious conversation any day because it meant he never had to mention all the things he wanted to forget.

"A bit," he admitted. "It burns."

"I can give you something for the pain."

"How do I know you won't be giving me something that'll give me boils?"

"You don't," she smirked, turning on her heel and making her way upstairs.

"Cheeky," he grinned, shaking his head.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	9. Chapter Nine: Attraction

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

My apologies about long waits between chapters are now for naught. They're beginning to get a bit disingenuous but I mean them all the same! I'm incredibly busy with school, studying for standardized tests, work, and now with Christmas approaching, shopping. Everything is so busy around the holidays it kind of sucks the joy out of Christmas. If any of you readers don't observe that particular holiday, you're SO lucky in that respect. The malls and stores are havens for murderous ladies who will run you down in cold blood with a shopping cart in order to get their greedy little hands on the last thing-a-ma-bobber. Regardless of my resentment toward certain parts of the Christmas season, I hope everyone else is looking forward to it and having a jolly good time!

To appease (hopefully!) everyone, this chapter focusses entirely on the growing Hermione/Draco relationship. The reason it took me so long it because I wanted the evolution of their relationship to seem realistic and genuine. I didn't want to insult your intelligence by rushing it. We all know they share a deep and unadulterated hatred for one another. So the hard part is turning that into a semi-functional, semi-healthy relationship. If at the end of this chapter you are unhappy with how it's going, please leave me some pointers! I love to hear back from you! Review and you shall be rewarded!

**Disclaimer:** All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

P.S. Excuse any grammatical or spelling errors. I've made you wait long enough so I was in a bit of a hurry to get this posted. Oh, and let me know if you spot any and I can go ahead and fix them! Thanks!

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**  
**ATTRACTION**

"Attraction is beyond our will or ideas sometimes."  
_Juliette Binoche_

"I believe very strongly that when it comes to desire, when it comes to attraction, that things are never black and white, things are very much shades of grey."  
_Brian Molko_

He pulled her shirt over her head with haste, sending her long curls in every direction. The air felt cold on the flushed, warm skin of her chest. He pressed his lips to hers again. The kiss was firm, confident, promising. The wool of his jumper was itchy against her skin. Her nerves were hypersensitive, it was almost as if her sense of touch was heightened. There were only a couple layers of fabric between them but the reality didn't frighten her as she had imagined. Instead, she felt a sense of liberty, of pride, in knowing she could elicit this response from him.

"Off," she breathed, her fingers curling around the hem of his jumper.

He pulled away only far enough to rip the offensive garment off. His t-shirt caught on the rough fabric and rode up far enough for her to see his smooth, alabaster skin. His muscles were lean and taut. She watched with a naive fascination, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. He looked like a starving, wild animal, eyeing her with a virility she was unaccustomed to. He pulled the t-shirt over his head and threw it into the dark. Her hands went to his chest, moving up and over the flat planes of his chest, the rigid line of his shoulders, and curled around his neck, pulling him closer.

His hands expertly worked the button of her jeans and she wiggled out of them, refusing to pull her mouth from his. The kisses were frantic now, hot and full of intent. His tongue pressed against hers, his teeth catching her swollen bottom lip. She dropped her hands to his trousers, wrenching down the zipper and popping the button. Her movements were fluid and steady. Strangely, her emotions were in check, overshadowed by a strong desire to have him.

"I want you," she sighed, his lips trailing hot kisses and sharp love bites along the column of her neck.

Her back arched as it pressed against the cold, hard surface of a wall. His hand worked the clasp of her bra with ease. Her head lolled back, her nerves searing at the feeling of flesh on flesh. He slid the undergarment across the floor. She watched it disappear into the shadows that almost engulfed them entirely. She could've sworn they were standing moments ago. His mouth was on hers again, quelling the confusion instantly. His hand trailed down her stomach. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her stomach. She wondered if he could feel it too, if he knew how she felt. Her hands fisted in his hair as his hand brushed the top of her underwear.

He slid the thin fabric down her legs. It felt infinitely heavier as it brushed along her thighs. Every article of clothing seemed extraneous and it couldn't come off fast enough. He pulled just far enough away for his bright eyes to meet hers. He slid his body down hers, pressing kisses along her chest, her ribs, her stomach. Her head fell to the side, her flushed cheek pressed against the cool floor. His one arm was braced beside her, his fist clenched, while the other was at her hip. Her wild curls were splayed on the floor. Her eyes followed the strong curve of his wrist and the smooth line of his forearm. Curling almost imperceptibly around the side of his forearm, curling out from the shadows, were the distinct black lines of the Dark Mark. Her eyes didn't stop on the mark, she didn't contemplate it whatsoever. Her eyes continued their slow procession, drinking in the strong features of the man on top of her before resting on a head of shining blonde hair.

"Draco." she whispered.

"SHIT!"

Hermione bolted upright, dazed and disoriented. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. The dark room slowly came into focus. She could make out enough to know it certainly wasn't her bedroom. The last few embers in the fireplace were casting a residual glow about the room, illuminating the bookshelves, the tattered wallpaper, and the cabinets of odd trinkets. She looked down at the book in her lap. She didn't even remember falling asleep.

The house was quiet except for the hollow ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The second hand was slowly lumbering up and over the ornate face. She squinted, trying to make out the time. It wasn't quite dark, but it was nowhere near light outside. It was the early hours of morning when no one was awake, when the world was painted in shades of rich, endless blue. It was oddly peaceful, so much so she couldn't quite remember what had startled her from sleep.

The silence was abruptly broken by metallic crashing and angry cursing. She sighed heavily. So that was what—or who, rather—had woken her up. Malfoy.

Hermione put the abandoned book on the table. What he was do up this early in the morning was beyond her. The fact that he had ruined perhaps the best night's sleep she would get in weeks didn't put her in the most favourable of moods, but Merlin forbid she ignored whatever mess he had managed to make. Her footsteps were quick as she gingerly made her way down the rickety stairs. The old, warped hardwood was cold on her bare feet.

The kitchen was bathed in warm light, animated by the ruckus that had startled her from sleep while the rest of the house remained in a quiet solitude. Hermione rubbed the remaining sleep from her eyes, squinting in the bright light. Malfoy hadn't heard her come down. He stood with his back to her, facing the stove. His shoulders were hunched and his muscles taut. There were broken matches littering the floor around him and, broken glass and ceramic was scattered along the counter.

"What," she said, her voice still thick and raspy with sleep. "The _hell_ is going on?"

Malfoy, standing in the epicenter of the disaster, whirled around. He looked absolutely livid, clenching a matchbook in his hands.

"You know," he snapped. "It's considered good manners to announce one's presence before entering a room."

"I'm sorry, did I scare you?"

"Yes," he said.

Hermione smiled.

"That..._thing_ on your head is enough to frighten anyone."

Instinctively, her hands went to her hair. The curls were wild and unruly, sticking up at impossible angles that seemed to defy the laws of physics.

"What are you doing? Or trying to do?"

"Well, Sleeping Beauty, while you were upstairs snoring, I decided I was hungry. I tried to wake you up, but you sleep like the bloody dead. So here I am, doing the dirty, demeaning work of muggles."

"First, I'm going to ignore your blatant purist attitude. Second, I do not snore."

"And when have you ever been in a position for someone to tell you otherwise?" he asked. "I know you haven't shared a bed with anyone except that fluffy monstrosity you call a pet."

Hermione bit her tongue. It was too early in the morning to argue. She would take the high road, rise above his petty insults. It was about time one of them made an attempt at civility. They'd been at each other's throats for weeks. Frankly, the bickering was becoming tiresome and it took up too much of her valuable time. She could've been doing research, something both productive and useful.

"So you know the story of Sleeping Beauty?" she backpedalled.

Perhaps this was the way to a civil conversation. Although they had almost nothing in common, she had at least heard of Sleeping Beauty.

"Yes, you insipid cow. The story is about a witch. My mother used to..."

Perhaps it wasn't the way to go about it.

"It's a muggle love story about a prince and a princess that your mother used to tell you before bed. How adorable," she teased.

Hermione couldn't resist the self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. He glared at her.

"It as story about a witch."

"If it makes you feel better you can tell yourself that."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"After you called me a cow? Absolutely not."

"I've called you much worse."

"Thank you for reminding me."

"Either you help me or I end up burning down this sty you lot call a house."

"I won't help you. You won't burn the house down either because you can't even light a match."

She could see him clench his jaw and realized she had never appreciated the innocuous appliance more than now. The matches didn't matter much because Malfoy hadn't figured out how to turn the gas on.

"Get over it, already. Take your wounded pride and bury it deep inside somewhere. Now, light the bloody fire."

"In your dreams."

"Let me assure you, you do not appear in my dreams in any way, shape, or form, Granger. Though I can't say the same for you."

"Excuse me?"

"Really, you're going to play that card, are you? Isn't the innocent act getting a bit old?"

"What are you on about?"

His anger at her stubbornness and her refusal to help him subsisted quickly. It was replaced by a devious intrigue that made her immediately uncomfortable. She could feel the waves of conceit rolling off of him.

"You can't remember."

"Remember what?"

His eyes were trained on her.

"I happen to know I was a featured guest in your dreams."

Hermione laughed.

"You think it's funny?" he asked, smirking at her.

"Your ego is astounding."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Of course you are. Honesty and humility are your best qualities," she said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

"Don't believe me," he said, shrugging. "But you might want to consider taking some Dreamless Sleep before bed, just in case."

She eyed him suspiciously.

"In case of what?"

"You wouldn't want to give yourself away. Harboring fantasies for the person you hate most in the world is embarrassing in itself, but those need to be kept private."

"I do not have fantasies about—"

"And it creates a compromising situation for me, Granger. I'm trapped in this disgusting house with you and much to my dismay I have to see you everyday. Think of how it effects me, knowing you picture me stark naked at night."

His voice exuded sarcasm. Teasing her was by far his favourite pastime, but this was cause for a special celebration. The sounds of pleasure she'd been making carried up the stairs as he made his way to the kitchen. It was almost too good to be true. When he stepped into the study, ready to tease the mickey out of her, he realized she was asleep. He could imagine what she of all people would fantasize about, but he didn't want to dwell on it for too long. It probably involved filthy bookshelves and ink-stained hands. He was just about to turn the corner when his name fell from her lips. Her voice was breathy and quick.

She would never forgive herself for fantasizing about him, for allowing him to invade her mind, to touch her so intimately, to be inside her. She would undoubtedly experience a burning shame and a whole new level of self-loathing. To think, he didn't even need to lift a finger. She had done this all on her own. It was like Christmas had come early. But hearing it was not enough for him. His curiosity was all consuming. She could murder him for doing this, but it was all part of the fun. He picked up her wand sitting on the end table and murmured the spell.

"Have you gone mental?" she asked, bringing him back to the present.

"No, but you might have. I know I'm attractive, but I just didn't think you were that kind of girl, Granger."

"What kind of girl?"

"The kind of girl who lets me make my way with her."

"I DID NOT!"

"Not physically, you didn't. Do you ever have an active imagination, though. I was certainly impressed."

Hermione's cheeks burned. He was leaning against the stove, his arms crossed casually, his ankles crossed leisurely. He was enjoying this, knowing he had the upper hand. On any given day he was a prat, but when he had leverage against someone, he was an astounding egomaniac. She didn't know why she was so uncomfortable. His insinuations didn't embarrass her, but made her squirm. She felt like her body temperature a jumped a few degrees.

"How often do you think of me?"

"I don't," she said, clearing her throat.

"You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better," he said, mocking her earlier statement.

"I don't think of you!"

"Tell me, Granger," he said, staring intently at her. "Were you...satisfied?"

"How many different ways can I tell you this? I don't know what you are talking about."

"What was your favourite part? Mine was when you ripped my clothing off. I never imagined you'd be so forward."

Her jaw dropped.

"It's all coming back to you, somehow. Isn't it?"

"Did you...you didn't..."

"I also liked when you said my name in that breathy little voice. You never say my first name. Why is that? It sounds so much nicer than my last name. Especially when you're all hot and bothered."

"Legilimency! You used Legilimency on me! You violated my mind while I was sleeping?"

Hermione's temper flared dangerously. She could feel her blood boiling. She was angry with herself for having any physical attraction toward him at all, even if it was unconscious. What was even worse, she was angry with herself for deriving pleasure from the fragmented bits and pieces of her dream she could remember, for having a good night's sleep.

"I didn't violate it. I just took a peek. All your private memories and thoughts are your own...except perhaps that one."

Hermione reached for the closest object she could get her hands on. She reared back and hurled the tea cup at him as hard as she could. Malfoy ducked as it shattered against the wall above the stove, sending bits of ceramic about the room.

"What the _fuck_, Hermione?"

"No," she snapped. "You don't get to be angry. You ruined your life! You couldn't be a Death Eater, you couldn't be a Malfoy. Voldemort wouldn't have you and your father definitely wouldn't have you! Your own aunt tried to kill you, for God's sake!"

Malfoy looked murderous. His fists were clenched at his side. Ever muscle in his body was tense, quivering with effort it took to restrain himself. He had upped his torment of her, he'd been impossibly cruel, and she lashed out. Hermione crossed a line that should never have been crossed.

"If your mother could see you now, what would she make of your disgusting—"

His hand gripped her jaw tightly, immediately silencing her. The words poised on her lips disappeared. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, searching his desperately. Maybe she could see the violent intentions in his eyes. They were cold and emotionless, though, flat planes of grey.

"I know you like to hear yourself speak, Granger. You say one more word about my mother, though, and it will be your last."

She shoved him, wrenching her face from his grasp.

"What do you want to hear, then? That you're alright? That you're okay? Well you're not. You can't use Voldemort or your family as an excuse for you cruelty and your selfishness. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and you've taken advantage of that. You don't have many friends here, so I would consider making an attempt at civility if I were you. The Order certainly doesn't trust you, and now I'm beginning to see why. Day and night all I can think about or worry about is you. You're in the way of everything I'm supposed to be focussed on. You've just forced yourself into my life and you've made a mess of everything! Let me be clear, though. No matter how nice I seem, no matter how tolerant of you I am, I cannot stand you Draco Malfoy. I loathe you and I look forward to the days that I never have to see you again."

He didn't say anything but stared back at her with an indiscernible expression.

"And if you ever use Legilimency on me again or grab me like that, I'll let the Order have you. Got it?"

Now he has nothing witty to say, she thought sardonically.

"Fine, fine. I promise. Now that I've seen you without a stitch on, though, I don't have to."

Hermione lost it.

The burner behind Draco burst into flames so high they seared the ceiling. Hermione started and he flinched violently, a vicious cry of pain escaping his lips. He dropped to the floor almost instantly, quickly pulling himself away from the flame. Every movement made him wince, every pull of his muscles inadvertently pulled at the burnt skin on his back. Hermione was unable to do anything. She didn't have her wand, she wasn't well versed in wandless magic. She could only watch as the fire stretched upwards and out, engulfing the counter around the stove. Draco rolled onto his back with a growl of pain, focussing his attention wholly on the blaze. She could see his muscles straining with the effort. He didn't blink, he didn't breathe. His full attention was fixed on the roaring fire. His frown deepened and she could see a tremor in his hand. The flames continued to lick the ceiling, spreading quickly along the wall and out of control. He clenched his jaw and his nose began to bleed. A couple of scarlet drops turned into a steady stream, curling into the corner of his mouth, running down his chin.

Then, as if all the air in the room had been sucked out, the flame rapidly faded. He kept his eyes fixed on the source of the fire, unable to take his eyes off it for fear of breaking the spell. When the room fell silent and, the fire had been smothered and put out, Hermione looked at Draco. His head fell back onto the stone floor and he gasped.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know how that happened."

"Where's your wand?"

"It's upstairs. Are you alright?"

"Do I look alright, Granger?" he asked.

"You don't have to be so unpleasant."

"Unpleasant? You set me on fire!"

"You think I did that?"

"I know you did! I know how to control my magic. You clearly don't."

"I don't know how to perform wandless magic."

"You," he said, glaring at her. "Are a lonely, self-righteous, sexually repressed virgin with self-esteem issues and an intense hatred for me. I assure you, you did."

His portrait of her upset her more than the slew of typic insults he usually arranged. Is this what he thought of her? Was there nothing good about her character? Nothing in that list that would redeem her? She didn't know if it was the ease with which he dismissed her or that he was right that hurt her so much. Either way, she had nothing to say in return.

* * *

"I almost set the house on fire!"

Hermione had tracked Draco down in the study, the older one that is. He looked up from his book.

"I thought I could smell the pungent aroma of something burning."

"Of course. You knew this would happen. Why am I not surprised?"

"Because you're angry I didn't tell you."

"Yes," she said, eyeing him with suspicion. "I am."

He turned his attention back to his book.

"Did you use Legilimency again?" she asked in a whisper.

"No. You're just remarkably transparent."

She glared at him. He sighed and closed the book in his lap with a sharp snap. Tossing it aside, he shifted on the couch, squaring his shoulders to her and giving her his undivided attention.

"I apologize, Hermione. That was rude. I meant to say 'no, you've just been complaining about my indolence and uselessness so often, I've committed it to heart'."

"Funny," she snapped.

"Not as funny as the look on your face when I told you about the dream."

"I don't remember it!" she reiterated.

"So that's the story you're sticking to, is it?"

She just looked at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction he wanted.

The unconscious mind is full of...funny things, isn't it?"

"Get over yourself. It's the unconscious which, by definition, means I am neither aware or in control of it."

"It's just a manifestation of your basest desires."

"Which I have no say in."

"Of course not," he said, a playful glint in his eye. "Well, this has been a most...illuminating chat, but I'll be on my way to my room."

The abruptness of his movements and the easy dismissal of their conversation jarred her.

"Do you have a previous engagement?" she teased.

"No, the other me is coming upstairs in a moment in search of something to undo the damage you've done."

"It was an accident!"

"Sure," he laughed, disappearing up the stairs.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the sound of loud, heavy footsteps carried up the stairs.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I think it's only fair that you fix what you've broken."

"I haven't broken anything, besides your pride."

"Your inability to control your magic doesn't hurt my pride. In fact, it should hurt yours. Finally you've found something you're rubbish at."

"I was referring to the fact you're asking me for help."

"I don't need help," he snapped.

"Oh, alright," she said, taking the seat his older self had vacated moments earlier. Hermione absently picked up the book he'd been flipping through. She turned the pages without interest, her eyes skimming the text. She wasn't actually reading, she just wanted to make him squirm, and squirm he did. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him hesitating in the door. He held one arm against his chest, presumably the one she'd all but blown up.

Draco shook his head. She was enjoying this, he could see it, the stupid smirk on her face. If she hadn't taken his wand and hidden it from him, he could've easily fixed himself up. Now he was at the mercy of the bossy know-it-all he despised.

"Fine."

She looked up.

"What's that?"

"I said 'fine'," he ground out through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you."

"I need help."

"That's better! Was that so hard?"

"You have no idea."

Hermione stood up from the couch and made her way to the bathroom. It was a small, narrow space. The floor tiles were old and antique in appearance, a decadent cream with a dark brown Regency print. The colours were muted, but the decor was highly stylized, almost Rococo in nature. The highly polished brass mirror made the room seem infinitely larger than it was, taking up most of the wall opposite the porcelain claw foot bathtub.

She pulled open a drawer beside the sink. He could hear her rummaging around, glass bottles clinking and sliding.

"Madam Pomfrey makes the best salve for burns. She truly is an amazing healer."

"How serendipitous."

She ignored the quip, pulling a large jar filled with a thick, orange paste from the drawer instead. Hermione unscrewed the top and set it on the vanity.

"I really am sorry," she said.

It was quieter, gentler than her last apology. It seemed more genuine to him. She seemed sincerely bothered by her lack of control.

"I've had worse."

"I know," she said, watching a rueful smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "This is becoming a routine."

She reached down to the hem of his t-shirt, slowly pulling it over the burn. The deja-vu was overwhelming. The flames had seared not only his back, but the left side of his neck, his left shoulder, and the back of his left arm. He hissed as the fabric burned into his skin was pulled free. With one swift movement, Hermione tugged the rest of the tattered fabric over his head. She dropped it to the floor and examined the extent of the damage.

"Does it bother you that you couldn't control it or that it was dangerous?"

"My magic?"

He nodded.

"Both. I should be in control of my magic. It's an extension of myself. I'm responsible for using it and controlling it. It should never control me. That's what makes it so dangerous."

Hermione began applying the cool, soothing paste to his skin. She smoothed it across his back in a thick, even layer.

"Do you normally get a nosebleed when you use wandless magic?"

"It only happens when I outdo myself. I haven't mastered it yet. Bellatrix had just started teaching me before I left."

"She took quite an interest in you."

"And look where that's gotten me."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know. I'd prefer not to talk about it."

"Alright."

She finished covering his burn, rinsing her hands in the sink and storing the rest of the salve.

"You have to leave it on for an hour or so. It'll get rid of the burns, but your skin will still be a bit irritated and sore."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Alright."

Hermione got a cloth wet and turned back to him.

"If Potter and Weasley left without you, why aren't you with your parents? With everything that's going on...I'd have thought you'd be with them to make sure they're safe."

As soon as he asked, she looked ashen.

"I couldn't keep them safe by being with them. I'm needed here, with the Order. So I did the only think I could to keep them away from the Death Eaters."

She gently grabbed his chin and tilted his head up. He looked at her intently, trying to gage her emotional response. She was far less guarded than anyone he had ever met. His family, his old friends at school, they all lied. Emotion was a vulnerability, a weakness. So they just repressed it until they felt nothing at all. But Hermione let everyone see everything. She hid nothing. It was oddly comforting to him.

"I erased myself from their memory and sent them far away. They can't remember me anymore."

She wiped the warm cloth along his chin and pressed it to his nose. His blood stained the soft cotton. He closed his hand around hers, pulling it away from his face. The small bathroom seemed to shrink in size, closing in on her. He was looking at her so intently, making such a study of her she felt the need to run.

Although he was crude about intimacies, it had been so long since Draco had been touched without violence or necessity he had almost forgotten what it felt like. He could wipe a bit of blood out from under his nose, but her touch was so soft and so warm, so kind. He watched her swallow, saw her chest rise and fall quickly. It wasn't his intention to make her nervous, to make this situation unnecessarily awkward. She had made it clear she was not interested. He most certainly was in no position to be pursuing anyone let alone the golden girl. But he couldn't help thinking about her dream, recalling the images she'd conjured up. The pad of his thumb brushed the inside of her wrist gently. He heard her breath hitch. He let go of her as though burned.

"I think you need to leave."

"Right," she said, nodding profusely.

Hermione dropped the soiled cloth in the sink and nearly ran out of the bathroom. She went straight to her room, resolved to hide there for the rest of the day. It wasn't even midmorning and already she couldn't wait for the day to be over. Draco's violent mood swings were giving her whiplash. She couldn't keep up with him and the moment she thought she did, he changed. He was confusing her, eliciting emotions that were unwarranted and unwelcome. Indulging in petty arguments with him and entertaining silly ideas of friendship or—Merlin forbid—romance was distracting her from her work. The only option that was appropriate or sane was to deny any such thoughts had crossed her mind and repress the pesky emotions that had gotten in her way.

In the bathroom, Draco watched her flee. He heard her door close and finally let out a tiresome sigh he'd been holding in. As soon as she had left the room the tension in the air dissipated. The change was immediate. His body relaxed and he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a pulsing headache.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked himself.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	10. Chapter Ten: Vindication

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****I know, I know. This chapter took a long time. In my defense it's much longer than others I have written! It was also Christmas and New Years. A happy belated holidays to all readers and a thank you to everyone who reviewed and subscribed! Keep it up :) To make up for the long wait, though, I made a banner than I have posted on my profile. Some eye candy to go with the story!

Just to keep everyone in the loop I thought I'd let you know you should be expecting a lot more action and drama in the next couple chapters. You'll be seeing some familiar faces that we haven't seen in this particular story yet! I've also been working on chapters out of order because I keep getting these terrific plot ideas that do not pertain to the chapter I'm currently working on. Kind of pain in the rear but it'll make the story much more interesting in the long run!

Anyways, enjoy! Review! Then stew over what's going to happen next!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN  
****VINDICATION**

"Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love."  
_George Eliot_

"_Brilliant_ idea," he snapped. "Walk in the front door."

The sarcasm oozed from every word like an ulcer. Hermione glared at him from across the table. Draco had been in a foul mood for days. When he wasn't shut away in his room he was brooding and sullen, jumping on any opportunity to start a fight with her. More often than not their rows started over something trivial. Sometimes it was her mere presence that agitated him.

"They won't see it coming," she ground out. "We'll have the element of surprise on our side."

"The only surprise waiting for you, Granger, is a spot in the dungeons next to that loony wandmaker."

"I'm afraid Draco is right," Remus said quietly.

Few members of the Order had been able to get a word in edgewise while Hermione and Draco bickered. The smallest comment escalated into an argument which carried on endlessly and deterred any progress they might've been made had the two not been at each other's throats all evening.

"You're siding with him?" she asked, outraged. "This is absurd! Have you forgotten he's a former Death Eater? We should be taking his advice with a grain of salt!"

"Look whose changed her tune," Fred said, grinning like a fool.

"At last she sees sense!" George agreed.

"Oh shut up," Hermione snapped, turning on the twins.

They held their hands up in surrender, deciding to bow out before violence ensued. What should have been a brief meeting to iron out the details of a plan to rescue Ollivander from Malfoy Manor had turned into an evening of bickering and petty insults.

"I'm not taking anyone's side," Remus said, trying to keep a tentative peace between the two. "I'm acknowledging that there is some sense to what Draco is saying."

"What does he know?" she grumbled.

"Everything," he said. "As you so tactlessly pointed out just now I was a Death Eater. That gives me a unique perspective that you do not possess. It's also my house. I know the layout and I know that there is no way a rescue party will get in and out unscathed."

Everyone who could attend the meeting was seated away from the table, watching the horrific scene unfold with a morbid fascination.

"Forgive me if I'm not terribly impressed," she hissed. "But everything you know is a result of your unfortunate family name."

"I take it reading is somehow impressive then? It's the only reason you know anything at all. I suppose I'd be a bitter self-righteous hag too if I was locked in this monstrosity you call a house."

"Self-righteous! That's brilliant coming from a pompous git like you."

"At least I have a reason to be pompous. There's nothing more pathetic than a pretender."

"I am not pathetic," she snapped. "You took the Dark Mark and pledged your loyalty to a raving lunatic. You defected out of desperation and cowardice because you couldn't stand to be tortured by your aunt not because you know that everything you think is wrong. Everything you do is and will always be self-serving because you can't admit that you're wrong, you're incapable of good. If that isn't the definition of pathetic, Draco Malfoy, I don't know what is."

"Let's remember that it's important we work together on this, shall we?" Molly said quickly.

Mrs. Weasley's interjection fells on deaf ears. The tension in the room was at an all time high. Draco glared at her maliciously. All evening they'd been toeing the line and she had just crossed it. They were not friends, not by a long shot, but there had been an understanding between them. She was privy to information that he was both embarrassed and deeply ashamed of. For the sake of his pride, in an attempt to help him adjust at Grimmauld Place, she hadn't told anyone. Now, out of anger, she'd blurted out some of his most private secrets to a room filled with strangers poised to judge him. She had exposed him and left him vulnerable in a way that lit his short fuse.

His eyes darkened and his scowl deepened with every unforgiving word she spat at him. It was like everyone else in the room disappeared. Draco only had eyes for her.

"Just because you happened to be at this dump that senile old man sent me to and you, the saintly bint you are, jumped on the chance to fix me up and mend my wretched ways," he said, his voice cold and steady. "It doesn't mean you know a fucking thing about me."

"Don't you ever speak about him like that."

"I'll speak about him any ways I like," he said. "I don't think he'll mind. He is dead, after all."

"Because of you!"

"Alright," Remus said, getting to his feet swiftly. " That's enough!"

"Regardless, here I am," he said, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. "A part of the Order."

"You are not a part of this," Hermione spat.

"According to him," he said, gesturing to Remus. "I am."

Hermione looked to Remus for help. How could anyone concede to this ludicrous idea after this? Malfoy was incapable of remorse. He hadn't changed at all. She stood by what she had said earlier. He came to Grimmauld Place so he wouldn't have to face Voldemort or his family. It was self-preservation at its finest. He hadn't experienced a change of heart. He couldn't feel remorse or guilt for his actions because he didn't believe he was wrong.

"Remus," she said, looking at him desperately.

"He would be instrumental—"

"I don't care!" she said. "We can't trust him."

"Who said anything about trust?" Fred asked.

"I don't like this idea any more than you do, Hermione," George said. "But there's no denying he'd be useful."

"And 'he' is sitting right here," Draco said, annoyed.

"Yes," Hermione said. "But you have a very specific purpose here. You're going to give us information. It doesn't mean we have to treat you like the fully formed person you most certainly are not."

"That's the spirit," Fred said.

"Let's try to stay on task," Mr. Weasley said.

"I stand by what I said earlier. Who is there or how many Death Eaters are there won't matter if we can get in and out quickly and efficiently," Hermione said.

"No one will be getting in or out efficiently, that's the point," Draco argued. "There are Dementors all over the grounds. Then there's the gate which is impenetrable to you lot."

"Is it the only way in?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Obviously," he said curtly.

"How do you get in then?" George asked.

"I cast the necessary charm," Draco said.

"Can't you just teach us?" Tonks asked.

"No, it has to be performed by a Death Eater," Draco said. "It's Dark Magic."

"I still don't understand why one of us can't just cast the charm," someone said.

"Are you mentally deficient?" Draco asked. "What a useless group of Aurors you are. Dark Magic isn't something you learn it's something have. Effective Dark Magic is in the blood, it's in families not in books."

"Can't Snape jimmy the lock for us, then?" George asked.

"Do you want your only inside connection to be branded a traitor and murdered?" Draco snapped.

"Tempting," Fred said.

"Fred Weasley! Bite your tongue," Molly scolded.

"So it has to be a Death Eater," Remus said, glancing across the room at Mr. Weasley. "And someone whose family comes from Dark Magic."

"So no one who is actually a member of the Order," George clarified.

"Brilliant! We might as well call it a night then, since no one—" Fred started.

"No," Remus said. "There is one person..."

"Absolutely not. Mad-Eye will never agree to it," Mr. Weasley said, shaking his head at Remus's pointed stare.

"It's the 'path of least resistance.' I believe those were his words," Remus said. "Were they not?"

"Yes, but—" Mr. Weasley started.

"What are you two being so cryptic about?" Tonks asked.

"Yeah," George said. "What did Mad-Eye have to say about it?"

Hermione shook her head. She was not accustomed to being kept out of the loop but it was easy enough to figure out what Remus and Arthur were planning. There was only one person in the whole of Britain that fit that description and it was also the last person she wanted to depend on when the situation could very well be life or death.

Earlier that morning Harry and Ron had sent her a message by owl. It was short and scrawled on a scrap of crumpled parchment with haste:

_Ollivander is at Malfoy Manor. Has information. H & R_

It was reckless of them to send something so telling. Who knows what would've happened had it fallen into the wrong hands. Any plans to rescue Ollivander from the Manor would've been for naught. The message arrived unopened with every manner of spell and curse put on it to keep it sealed. Hermione wasn't taking chances, though, not with this. She called an emergency meeting but the plan to rescue the old wandmaker was taking much longer to sort out than anyone had anticipated.

"They want to send Malfoy," Hermione said, glaring at the two older wizards.

"With us?" Fred asked.

"Didn't Mad-Eye say he was supposed to stay here, under lock and key?" George asked.

"This is an exceptional circumstance," Remus said. "Having Draco would infinitely reduce the risk involved."

"Or create a new one," Hermione said.

"You can open the gate, Draco?" Mr. Weasley asked, ignoring Hermione's protest.

He nodded.

"What about the Death Eaters inside?" Hermione asked. "I doubt a room full of your family and friends will be too excited to see you helping the Order."

"I'll figure it out," he said.

"Right!" she scoffed. "We're supposed to take it on faith you won't hand us over?"

"What will it take to tame the shrew?" he asked, turning on her. "I said I'd take care of it, so I'll take care of it. Is that not enough? Would you like it written in blood?"

Hermione was slightly taken aback. Taming the shrew? Ignoring the obvious insult, she couldn't possibly believe he was referencing Shakespeare. It had to have been coincidence. It had to be.

Next to Voldemort, Malfoy would be the last magical person in the world to read anything written by a muggle.

"You have a personal investment," Hermione said. "It's a liability."

"You're a liability, Granger. If you don't stop talking soon the decrepit wandmaker will die of natural causes before we even step foot on the grounds."

Hermione scowled at the few snickering Aurors about the room. Perfect, she thought bitterly. Now he was winning them over with his complete absence of charm and at her expense.

* * *

"Unbelievable!" Hermione hissed, marching into the study.

The phrase 'out of the fire and into the frying pan' was never more appropriate than when Hermione walked away from the younger Draco only to run into the older Draco. Though their attitudes were very different the older blonde still maintained the qualities she found most annoying in the younger one: the inflated ego, the sarcasm, the temper. The only difference was they were paired with other, better qualities such sincerity and charm, a goodness that was beyond his younger self.

"I take it the meeting went well?" he asked.

"Splendid," she snapped. "There was barely room in the kitchen for your ego."

"Has everyone gone?"

"I imagine you're seeing everyone out with fake niceties and grand promises as we speak. Tell me, did I do something to irritate you or is it just your sparkling personality that's made you a royal git as of late?"

"Both, most likely."

Hermione sat down on the sofa, listening to the faint pops of apparition outside.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he told her

"No?"

He shook his head.

"If it makes you feel better, Ollivander is alright. Everyone gets out in one piece," he said, watching her as she looked out the window.

"It should, but it doesn't," she sighed.

"Why not?"

"Because you'll be there. I know you've already lived this once but how can you guarantee everything will happen just the way you remember? You being here at all changes how everything else unfolds. It's a ripple effect."

"I think you watch too many of those muggle serials on the television."

"You know what a television is?" she asked, looking at him skeptically.

"I spent three years living with you," he grinned. "I know a lot more about muggles than I'd like to."

Her face paled. "You're going to be at Grimmauld Place for three years?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you leave?" she asked. "I know Mad-Eye wants you under constant watch...but after three years, surely you must've earned the Order's trust, earned your freedom?"

He shifted in his seat, turning to face her. Things were much more complicated than he imagined. Before his younger self arrived he had come to terms with how difficult it would be. He would have to repress any and all of his own feelings toward her, he'd have to lie to her. He'd have to commit himself to his plan because there truly was no going back. So far he had done just that. But it was becoming impossible to pretend. She could see right through him like a plate of glass. He should've given her more credit but he didn't. He assumed it would be easy to deceive her but she was more observant than he remembered. She had her wits about her and now he was forced to make a compromise.

"And what would you say if I told you I chose to stay?"

She laughed sardonically. "I wouldn't believe you."

"Exactly," he said. "So what does it matter?"

Her smile faded. He wasn't joking. "You stayed here of your own volition?"

He nodded.

"Why?" she asked. "I mean, I thought you hated it here?"

"It grew on me," he said.

She looked at him skeptically.

"Really? It grew on you? Is that supposed to be convincing?"

"Yes" he said, turning back to his book.

"Well it's not. Just so you know."

He didn't say anything but continued to scan the lines on the page. She looked at the old leather bound volume in his hands. He was always flipping through the same book. Since he'd arrived she had never seen him pick up anything else. Always the same book, always the same few pages. It was like he was looking for something that wasn't there. Maybe he thought if he stared at the pages long enough what he wanted to find would just magically appear. She had found herself in that situation many times as of late. She desperately wanted the answers to so many questions about him, about Horcruxes, that sometimes she hoped the information she wanted would materialize on the page. It never did and she was always left unsatisfied.

"What is this you're always reading?" she asked, snatching it from him.

"Hermione," he said impatiently, trying to grab it back unsuccessfully.

Hermione flipped through the first few pages, looking for the title.

"_A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot," she read aloud.

"Yes, now can I have it back?" he asked, his voice void of humor. This was the danger with having her around. One glance over his shoulder or one peek in a book and she would figure things out that she wasn't supposed to know in the first place.

"I'll give it back if you answer my question."

"Stop being childish, Hermione."

"Just one question and you can have your book back."

"Fine," he sighed.

"I want you to show me what happened the night you came back."

"That is not a question," he said, standing up and reaching for the book.

Hermione backed up, holding it out of his reach.

"Fine then, a request."

"Absolutely not."

"I won't ask why because I know what you're going to say."

"'Brightest witch of the age' might be a misnomer if you're just understanding why."

"But," she said. "I think you should show me regardless."

"This should be brilliant," he sighed. "And why do you think that?"

"Because I can help you."

"Hermione, I told you already. I will not go back."

"No, no. Not that. I know now that there is absolutely no help for you. You're the one who wants to stay trapped in a house with me and a younger version of yourself. To each his own. I can help the younger you, though."

Draco frowned. "I don't need help."

"I think you do."

"Dare I ask why?"

"Your extreme distaste for me is a defense mechanism. If I can understand what you ran away from I can help you come to terms with all the confusion you are undoubtedly feeling. It can't be easy denouncing your family and everything you've ever known."

"If I recall correctly, we got along just fine without any knowledge of the future the first time around and I just heard everything that happened downstairs, Hermione."

"You did?"

"Everyone in London heard you two shouting. I know that you don't think I'm confused. That was just some rubbish justification you thought up."

"I'll admit I made that up if you give up your 'knowing too much about your future is dangerous' polemic. You have another reason."

"Fine. I do."

"Why won't you show me?"

"It's personal," he said.

"What do you have to hide that I don't already know?"

"It's not just personal for me. It's personal for you too."

That was a curve ball Hermione did not see coming. "I'm in it?" she asked.

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"I can handle it, you know."

"Believe me, you can't."

"It's not like I'm dead," she said. "Stop stalling and show me already."

His heart skipped a beat. He tried to shrug it off and go along, but her smile hardened. She noticed the minute change in his demeanor, she saw the change in his expression.

"I...I'm not dead, am I?"

"Of course not."

"Then I see no problem with you showing me."

"I don't have a wand."

Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out her wand. She held it out to him.

"I thought you could do wandless magic."

"I can," he said, grabbing the wand. "But this type of magic requires a wand...and a Pensive, which I don't see lying around."

"It's in the cupboard behind you," she said smugly.

In a sign of defeat he wrenched open the old doors and found the stone basin on the top shelf. It was covered in a thick layer of dust.

"I take it you don't force members of the Order to divulge their private thoughts and memories often?" he asked, placing it on the coffee table and sitting down on the sofa.

Hermione sat beside him, her body practically humming with anticipation. She was finally going to get the answers she wanted.

"No," she said. "Lucky for you most of the Order are against forcibly violating the privacy of any individual, even a former Death Eater."

"I remember. No Veritaserum."

She nodded.

"Well, this is one memory I'll be glad to do away with."

"Will you come in with me?"

"No. You're not scared are you?"

"No," she lied.

He'd showed up at Grimmauld Place unconscious and on fire. She'd be mad if she wasn't a bit afraid to see what had happened to him but she would never admit that. He'd take too much pleasure in her discomfort for her to stand. His smugness was already stifling. He could tell she was lying and that was enough for her.

"You'll see and hear everything as it happened," he told her. "Except anything involving you."

"You can't edit your memories!"

"I can do whatever I like. They're my memories. Take it or leave it, Hermione."

Hermione sighed. "Fine."

Draco put the tip of the wand to his temple, closed his eyes, and concentrated. There was no need to say the incantation. He needed the wand though to hold onto the memory, to extract it and put it in the Pensive. His face tensed into a frown as he recalled the images he so wanted to forget. They came spilling from the background into the foreground, a rush of violent sounds and sights. He focussed on the memory, cutting Hermione out and pulling it from his mind. He gladly discarded the memory. It filled the basin, swirling about in a ghostly manner.

When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she was staring at the Pensive.

"Not going to back out now, are you?"

"Of course not," she said.

"You're hesitating."

"I was just thinking how strange it must be living two realities."

"Even though it's different from how I remember this feels more real to me than anything. My memories feel like dreams sometimes."

"Do you think you'll forget it?"

"I can't. It's too important to forget."

She didn't understand him and she wasn't meant to. Hermione knew what he was saying was the reason he was so distant and evasive but that reason was still unclear. She hoped seeing what happened would shed some light on this changed, older Draco and answer some nagging questions she had about how he was here, three years in the past. As she had read and re-read countless times, though, time travel was a precarious magic. There could be no plausible reason for what happened.

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," she said.

"Okay, go on then. Let's get this over with."

Hermione nodded. She stared at the basin filled with his memory. Her heart was beating erratically. Even though she was about to get all the answers to her questions, a sinking feeling in her stomach made her hesitate. Having his memory within reach felt inexplicably foreboding. She was dreading it now. If he wanted to forget it so badly, to pretend it never happened, to never go back, surely something terrible had happened. Did she really want to know what it was that had hurt Draco Malfoy so much? He was someone who didn't show emotion, so much so it made her wonder at times if he ever had any. She couldn't imagine anything that could affect him so, making this surreal moment even more daunting than she thought it would be. She couldn't revel in her moment of triumph for fear of what she would see.

She took a deep, calming breath and put her hair behind her shoulders. She leaned forward over the basin, watching the luminescent memory swirl like some strange combination of liquid and gas. It looked like fog over a lake. As if she were going below the surface of that lake she closed her eyes and held her breath. The familiar pulling feeling followed. It felt like she was being pulled to the depths of the lake. She kept her eyes closed until she felt something solid under her feet.

The scene began to materialize out of darkness as she opened her eyes. She expected to find herself in the fray of things, in the middle of the fight that landed Draco on the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, but there was nothing but silence. Deafening silence.

The room was dimly lit by grand chandeliers handing from a high ceiling. Shelves and shelves of books lined the room from floor to ceiling. They looked impossibly old, the vast majority of them being leather bound. She'd never been at Malfoy Manor before but the room seemed fit to be part of an ancestral home. All the furnishings looked antique, inherited and passed down through generations of Malfoys, and the carpet was exquisite and undoubtedly Persian.

And Draco Malfoy was on his knees in the centre of the room, bleeding all over the beautiful carpet. Two hooded Death Eaters stood on either side of him, towering over his hunched form.

"Why did you come back?" a cold, inhuman voice asked. "You're no longer welcome in this house, Draco."

"Obviously not," he snapped, looking at the person in front of him.

Hermione stepped further into the light, squinting at the person who had spoken. The voice gave her goosebumps and sent unpleasant shivers down her spine.

"What did you expect? A warm welcome after your behaviour?"

His frighteningly pale skin glowed in the darkness, reflecting the dim candlelight in the room. It was so pale it was almost translucent. She could see the dark veins in his neck disappearing beneath his black cloak. She had never been this close to him before. Her mind screamed at her to run. She had to remind herself this was a memory. He couldn't see her, he wasn't really there. Voldemort looked at Draco patiently, waiting for his response.

"And what behaviour is that?" Draco asked.

"Don't be coy," a shrill voice hissed.

Hermione only then realized Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy flanked Voldemort, standing dutifully at either side. Lucius was barely recognizable to her. His cheekbones jutted out from his face and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was no longer the aristocratic man he had once been. He looked like a broken man. He didn't look at his son with worry or fear but looked through him as he stood trial for reasons unknown to Hermione.

"Or what?" he asked. "You can't do anything to me you haven't done before."

"Such impudence!" Voldemort laughed coldly and humorlessly.

Bellatrix looked gleefully from her Master to Draco, itching for what was inevitably to come.

"Perhaps," he drawled. "Bellatrix, you can teach your nephew some manners?"

"Yes, m'lord," she grinned manically, stepping forward and pulling her long, crooked wand from her cloak. She pointed it at him, her crooked teeth biting her chapped bottom lip gleefully before she hissed the curse he had already prepared himself for.

Hermione watched in horror as every muscle in Draco's body tensed. His face collided with the floor, his fingertips were bent sharply, his spine was rigid. She couldn't see his face. It was pressed into the carpet and she could hear the strangled sounds of pain escaping his lips. He was doing everything in his power to avoid making a sound. He refused to give them the gratification they wanted.

"That's enough."

Voldemort spoke curtly and as soon as he uttered the words Bellatrix obediently dropped her want and moved back into the shadows behind the monstrous, serpentine wizard. Draco's body went limp. She could hear his laboured breathing from where she stood. She watched as he picked himself up and rested back on his heels with great difficulty. He licked his lips. They were stained with blood. He turned his head to the side and spat a thick mixture of blood and saliva. Hermione cringed. It looked like he'd been biting his tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

"Mr. Malfoy, we are so pleased you could grace us with your presence this evening," Voldemort said, continuing as if nothing had happened. "How does it feel to have your son home, Lucius? Omitting his indiscretions, of course."

Hermione watched as Draco looked at his father. The two stared at one another, unflinching.

"My son is dead, my Lord."

Draco's expression didn't change. If anything his gaze hardened. There was no love lost between them. Most likely because there was no love between them in the first place. Hermione felt uncomfortable for the first time, as though she were glimpsing something infinitely private. It was a part of his life that Draco Malfoy would never willingly discuss and she was experiencing it from his perspective. She could almost feel his disappointment at his father, his hatred and disgust. She couldn't fathom the years of neglect, the mental and physical abuse that bred such a distaste for one's own father.

Cold laughter interrupted her thoughts. "Yes, filthy blood traitors are no better than the Mudbloods that spoil their minds."

Everything suddenly sounded far away. It was muffled as though she were underwater. She couldn't make out what he was saying but she knew it was something Draco had edited. It was something about her he didn't want her to know and that in itself was telling.

"These are the words of a half-blood," Draco said. "Ironic."

She knew it was coming the moment he said 'half-blood.' Draco had crossed a line and like earlier he would be punished for it. He was at their mercy, or rather their lack of. Instead of avoiding trouble he was asking for it. It seemed more and more likely that he had a death wish, that Draco had an excess of Thanatos. Voldemort glared and spoke the Unforgivable that made Draco writhe on the ground much to their delight. When it had stopped she watched him pick himself up again. She wondered how long had this been going on. This was only a piece of his memory and already she felt sick to her stomach just watching.

"I would watch my tongue if I were you, little nephew," Bellatrix said.

He turned his attention to his aunt, feigning a look of indifference and boredom. She knew his insides must've been on fire.

"Should I watch my tongue if you want me to tell you where Potter is or where the Order is hiding?"

"Draco," Voldemort said slowly, an unpleasant smile pulling at his lips. "I hope that's not why you think you're here."

For a brief moment Hermione saw panic in his eyes. Draco thought he knew why he was here but apparently he'd been wrong. He'd misjudged them and it was written all over his face. He carefully assumed a dispassionate expression, masking the flash of alarm but he was unable to calm his taught muscles.

"Oh, you did," Voldemort continued, provoking quiet laughter from others in the room. "While you and your Order have been gathering information about us, no doubt through extensive assistance from yourself, we have been doing the same."

"You're lying," Draco said.

"I will admit I don't know where Potter and the Order are hiding, but I know who their Secret Keeper is. I think you do too, or am I mistaken?"

"I don't," he said.

Voldemort continued his taunting but Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying. The voices were muffled beyond recognition once again. It was useless to try so she looked at Draco's face instead, gauging his expression. His facade crumpled and she could see the dread washing over him. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. When Voldemort had finished speaking, Bellatrix ambled over to the centre of the room. She was remembering something, her gaze unfocussed. He wasn't looking at her face, but to her hand where something was dangling from her closed fist. Hermione could see it too. It caught the little light there was in the room. She moved closer and her heart skipped a beat. It was her Time Turner.

Draco told her a Death Eater had taken it from her. At the time it made no sense but here it was in Bellatrix's cold, bony hands. She looked over at Draco. He was transfixed, watching it with wide, unblinking eyes. Then she threw it toward him. It landed with a soft tinkling. She could make out a large crack along the hourglass and smears of blood. Her stomach started to churn. Whose blood was that? When she found it in Draco's bloody hand the night he arrived at Grimmauld Place she had assumed it was his, but clearly she'd been wrong.

Bellatrix's muffled voice continued but Draco didn't seem to be listening. He was transfixed by the Time Turner. The trance was not pleasant, though. He looked empty and hollow. He didn't blink and he didn't seem to be breathing. She could see his Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed roughly. Everyone in the room looked on with intrigue. Bellatrix looked at Draco with a sick delight and a twinkle in her dark eyes. She said something and Draco looked up, screaming at her. The Death Eaters seemed surprised by his outburst, especially Bellatrix. Hermione had never seen anyone speak to her in such a way.

Draco's pained expression hardened into what she could only call resolve. He looked determined. His eyes didn't leave the Death Eaters in front of him but she could see his mind working frantically. He was looking but he wasn't seeing. He was devising a plan. Then he leapt up and threw back his elbow. Hermione leapt back as the crack of cartilage followed by the howl of pain sent the room in motion. As Draco threw his weight into the Death Eater on the other side of him, Voldemort and Bellatrix started shouting. The other hooded figures in the room reached for their wands and started hurling every known curse at him.

They missed him by inches and Hermione watched as Draco threw himself into the centre of the room, reaching for the Time Turner. Entire shelves were blown off the wall. Priceless books were tossed around the room, catching fire, singeing the carpet. He rolled onto his back and fumbled with the delicate hourglass.

"Please work, please work," she heard him say.

The hourglass didn't turn but he didn't look utterly defeated as she thought he would. He was outmatched and without a wand. It seemed his last and only resort had failed him. Instead he closed his eyes and a look of calm spread across his face. It lasted for a second, maybe two, before an explosion flung him across the room like a rag doll. She couldn't hear the sound of glass breaking over the ringing in her ears and the deafening shouting, but she saw it shatter. Bits of glass imperceptibly scattered the floor, a graveyard now for books and fine Persian rugs. Before he could crash into the bookshelf on the opposite wall he disappeared and everything began to dematerialize. Hermione was hurled from the memory just like Draco was hurled across the room.

She opened her eyes, breathless, and found herself in the study.

"Hermione?" Draco asked, grabbing her arm as she blindly reached out for something in front of her. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the familiar room bathed in warm light.

She couldn't organize her thoughts.

"Bellatrix," she said breathlessly. "She had my Time Turner."

"Calm down," he said, reaching for her other shoulder.

Hermione wrenched herself out of his grip, stumbling slightly as she stepped away from him and the sofa. She shook her head and tried to process what she had just seen.

"You _lied_ to me," she spat.

"Of course I did," he said. "I knew you'd react like this."

Draco stood and waved her wand, casting a silencing spell on the room.

"You tried to convince me I was wrong. You made me feel ridiculous," she continued, ignoring him entirely.

"For good reason. You're being ridiculous now. Just calm down so we can—"

"Don't tell me what to do," she hissed. "I was right all along. You were at the manor and somehow you wound up here. I came to you with a perfectly plausible explanation and you dismissed it."

"What was I supposed to do, Hermione?"

"You could've told me the truth! Clearly your misguided, egomaniacal attempt to keep everything a secret isn't working."

"Egomaniacal? I'm doing this for your own good."

"You don't get to decide what's good for me! You don't even know me!"

"I know you well enough to know you're too busy looking out for everyone else to take care of yourself. There comes a point when acting the martyr is just plain stupid, Hermione. I take it that's something you've learned from Potter."

"And I suppose being as unbelievably selfish as you is the intelligent alternative?"

"It beats being under-appreciated. You're so selfless you just let them abandon you. You didn't even put up a fight, did you?"

"They did not abandon me here."

"So you chose this, then?"

She glared at him. He had some nerve questioning her motives considering she was the reason the Order agreed to let him stay. If she hadn't been here he would not have been treated with such leniency and tolerance.

"No one asked you to interfere in their lives, you know."

"I am not interfering. They don't know it but I'm doing them a favour."

"That sounds awfully selfless of you," she mocked him humourlessly. "I'd be careful if I were you, someone might think you have a heart."

"Oh, so I'm heartless because I know when to look out for myself?"

"No," she snapped. "You're heartless because you won't look out for everyone else."

"You can't save everyone," he said. "Surely you know this by now."

"That's such rubbish," she spat. "You have the power to change things, to save people—"

"I won't play God, Hermione. It's not right and you know that."

"You are not concerned with what is right and wrong. You have no moral compass. So what is it exactly you're hoping to do here?"

"I don't understand..."

"I asked you what you're planning on doing. You're a man of opportunity, Draco Malfoy. It would be absolutely ludicrous to think, given the chance, you wouldn't change some aspect of your past. You could rewrite three years of your life."

He sized her up, trying to figure out if she was bluffing. She didn't know anything, she couldn't possibly know. His journal was safely stashed away. She was just fishing for information. She was observant, he'd give her that, but he wasn't a fool.

"I think you know the answer to your question already. I've been trying to keep everything the same. I have nothing to change."

It was partly true. He was trying to keep everything on track, just not for the reason he was professing. He had quite a bit to change. He had to keep her from dying. He had to figure out what set off the series of events that left her dead in his time and stop it from happening. She never had to know and he certainly wasn't going to fall into her trap now.

"Everyone wants to change something. Everyone has regrets."

"I don't regret anything. I had a great life, it was fantastic until that night."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to."

"So if you're content with how your life plays out in the next three years why are you meddling?No one has asked you to be here."

"But all of you need me here."

She scoffed. "Your ego is astounding! We'd get on just fine without you."

"Like it or not I'm a part of the Order and nothing you say is going to get rid of me."

"Exactly. We're on the same side now. What's yours is mine, so explain to me what happened in the library, in your memory, and I'll leave you to whatever it is you're looking for in this book."

"I don't know anything more than you do."

"Explain, Malfoy."

"Oh, so it's Malfoy now? I see. I'm the only person who refuses to give you what you want and I'm being punished for that. You're infinitely more spoiled than I ever was, darling."

"Tell me what I want to know or I will walk down those stairs and tell you...the younger you..._everything_."

"Go on then," he said, positive it was an empty threat.

Hermione was not a vindictive person. She was more mature than that.

"Right," she said, marching towards the door. "You had your chance."

He lurched forward and caught her wrist, tugging her back away from the stairs roughly.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said quickly, desperate to make her stay. "I don't know what happened any more than you do."

"Not good enough," she said, trying to twist her wrist out of his grip.

"You saw everything! Did it look like I knew what I was doing?"

"There must be something else. You don't find yourself in a house you called home for three years in a room filled with members of the Order you called your peers for all that time by accident," she said, using her other hands now to pry his vice-like grip loose.

"If I know anything I'm not aware of it," he snapped. "If you're so intent on getting the truth out of me why don't you use Veritaserum? Or you could traipse through my mind. Whatever you want, do it."

"I wouldn't stoop to your level," she said, glaring at him as she recalled his humiliating venture through her mind.

"You can't want the truth that badly."

"I do," she assured him.

He used his spare hand to reach over and grab her wand again. He forced it into her free hand, closing her fingers around the slender vine wood handle.

"Go on, then. I know you've been practicing."

"No."

"You already saw what happened, why not take a look at my thoughts? It doesn't get much more personal than that. I don't know what I can say to prove to you I don't understand what happened. The Time-Turner wouldn't turn. I assumed it was the end of the road for me. I wasn't making contingency plans. You must've seen that. So I stopped running and I accepted it and then my last thoughts were...they were of..."

His voice faltered and he looked at her wide, bright eyes. Her face was flushed from the argument and the warm glow of the fire made her skin seem porcelain smooth. She was looking up at him with a mixed expression of fear at his brutishness and anger at his stubbornness. His grip loosened on her wrist enough for her to wrench it from her grasp. She dropped her wand on the sofa and rubbed the tender skin on the inside of her wrist.

"Well?" she asked impatiently, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Clearly it was something of importance. The look of shock on his face betrayed any attempt to cover up the truth now.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head.

She growled angrily. How typic of him, she though. "Bellatrix Lestrange had my Time Turner. It was covered in blood which I thought was yours when you showed up here. You were a bloody mess after all, but I know it wasn't because it was covered in blood before you ever touched it. I want...no, I deserve to know the truth!"

"It was you!" he yelled. "Alright? It was you. The last thing I thought of was you."

The words poised on the tip of her tongue dissipated. She forgot entirely what she was going to say and stared at him blankly. For the first time in her life Hermione was without anything to say. Suddenly she was two steps behind rather than ahead. It wasn't what she'd been expecting him to say. Her shock gave way to anger, though. The nagging irritation she felt whenever he was around her, whether it be his younger or older self, blossomed into an irrational anger.

"Why?" she asked, exasperated.

"More questions," he snapped. "Why do I tell you anything?"

"Malfoy!"

"You believe me, then?" he asked bitterly.

"No."

Even as she said it she knew it wasn't entirely true. She didn't believe him but she didn't think he was lying. There was something wonderfully innocent and sincere in his moment of realization.

"Clever girl," he said. "Terrible liar."

"Why did you think of me?" she asked, ignoring him.

"I want you to tell me what you think."

"Desperation. Self-preservation is a base instinct so it's only natural you would've thought of the people that would help you. Your extreme emotional and physical inclination to be safe brought you to a room of Order members."

There was so much he wished he could share with her, so much he needed to tell her. She had no idea that it was so much more than a desire to be safe. It was an overwhelming desire to see her and to be with her at the end.

"I didn't think of people, Hermione. I thought of one person in a room of many."

He backed away from her and moved to the couch, picking up her wand and flicking it absently. The silencing spell faded and the various ambient noises from around the house suddenly filled the small space they'd been trapped in. He took her hand and turned it so he was looking at the smooth skin on the palm of her hand. He put her wand in her hand and gently closed her fingers around it. She was frowning, struggling to understand what he meant, but her expression softened at his touch. His hands were rough and warm, almost entirely encompassing hers. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her knuckles before dropped his hand. It was the most honest thing he'd told her since he'd come to Grimmauld Place but she couldn't understand why. He hoped she'd never understand so he could spare her the realization that she would be dead in three years. At the same time a small part of him wanted her to know. He wouldn't have to lie or pretend. But that wasn't in her best interest. As she had observed, he was a selfish person but she was the one person he could be selfless with.

"Goodnight," he murmured.

* * *

"You look like shite."

She rolled her eyes at his tactlessness.

"I haven't been sleeping well."

"Worried?"

"We have to trust you, of course I'm worried."

"I said I'd get you and your precious Order in and out."

"I don't know why you keep referring to the Order as mine. As frightening a thought as it is, you're a part of it now so it's yours too."

"Please, Granger. It's too early in the morning for your disgusting sentimentality."

Hermione glared at him as he turned his attention to the morning Prophet. She'd successfully avoided the older Draco for an entire day, not that he had been out and about. Now that the plan for Ollivander's rescue had been put into motion, the house was alive and busy. She had more than enough to keep her mind off what had happened with Draco's memory. Order members were constantly coming and going but it wasn't nearly enough. She mulled over what he had said again and again, desperately trying to figure out what he meant.

It seemed ludicrous now that she knew the truth. In theory the ability to transcend space as well as time sounded reasonable, but know that she knew the specifics it was difficult to believe. He thought of her in the moment the Time Turner malfunctioned and found himself in front of her, in a different city entirely, three years in the past. She couldn't imagine why it was exactly three years. A few days after he showed up, though, his younger self wound up on the doorstep at Grimmauld Place. Perhaps that had to do with something. In a life or death situation it seemed plausible that he would've thought of a time much simpler than the one he was in. She could understand when and how, but the question of why still loomed just beyond her grasp.

"Stop it."

"Excuse me?" she said, jumping slightly at the sharp clarity of his voice.

He wasn't looking at her. He hadn't taken his eyes of the page.

"I said stop."

"Stop what?"

"Worrying. Thinking. Whatever nonsense is going on in that head of yours."

"You didn't even look up from your newspaper."

"I don't need to see you to know your sitting over there stewing about something."

"I'm fine," she maintained.

"What is it then?" he asked, putting the paper aside.

"Are you genuinely concerned or would you just like to take pleasure in my unhappiness?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

"I've hit a dead end with my research on Horcruxes."

His expression darkened at the word. Given his family and their position within Voldemort's inner circle Hermione was sure Draco knew about that particular branch of Dark Magic.

"As much as I hate Potter and the Weasel," he said, putting the paper down on the table. "Horcruxes are incredibly Dark Magic. I hope you know what you're doing."

"I know what a Horcrux is," she snapped.

"I'm sure you do but there's a difference between knowing and understanding. How are the two dimwits faring on their little quest to save the world?"

"Fine," she said with a certainty she did not possess. "They've already destroyed three and Dumbledore destroyed a fourth. From what we know that leaves three left: Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, and his snake."

"I'm surprised you figured out Nagini is one."

"Well each Horcrux is of great value to ensure it will never be destroyed. It wasn't a great intuitive leap to assume Nagini was one considering Voldemort is a Parselmouth," she said. "It never leaves his side according to Harry."

"Potter is right for once but there are four."

"What?"

"There are four Horcruxes left," he said. "Not three."

"What are you talking about? Voldemort split his soul into seven parts: Quirrell, Nagini, Riddle's diary, Marvolo Gaunt's ring, Slytherin's locket, the cup, and the diadem."

"And Potter."

There was no trace of cruelty or wrongful intent in Malfoy's expression. He'd said it so matter-of-fact it had taken her by surprise. At first she thought he was making a terrible joke out of it but his voice was devoid of any mocking or sarcasm. The younger blonde was looking at her intently. His steely gray eyes searched her face. He'd been as gentle with her as he was capable of being but he could see his abruptness had startled her.

Although the Golden Trio were inseparable Harry and Hermione shared a bond that Ron couldn't understand with such a large family. Harry was without one and Hermione only ever had her parents, and even then it was difficult to share with them all aspects of her magical life. They'd become surrogate siblings for one another over the years. The thought of losing Harry had always been a possibility but not one that Hermione ever considered a reality. The three of them had cheated death on so many occasions it seemed as though Harry would always win out over Voldemort. If Malfoy was telling the truth though, it finally occurred to Hermione that Harry might not make it through everything.

"No," she said finally, shaking her head. "That's not possible."

"You know the story as well as I do, Granger. Think."

"No," she repeated, her shock making way for anger and outrage.

"Voldemort murdered Potter's parents and then tried and failed to kill him. Why do you think Potter survived?"

"Dumbledore told Harry it was his mother's sacrifice."

"He lied."

"He would never."

"Right," Draco said. "Because he's always been so forthright with you lot. How many secrets has he kept from you?"

"Stop it. Just...stop."

"Transference is the only reason Potter is still alive. Part of his soul is Voldemort's."

"That means..."

"Potter has to die if anyone is ever going to kill Voldemort."

"That doesn't make any sense. The prophecy from the Department of Mysteries said that it would come down to Voldemort and Harry, one can only live if the other dies. Why would it say that if Harry had to die? It doesn't add up. Harry is the only one who can kill Voldemort."

"And look where you found the prophecy. The Department of Mysteries. That in itself should be enough to tell you the rest is kismet."

Hermione looked at him with wide eyes.

"Kismet?"

"Yes. Fate. Destiny. Whatever nonsense you want to call it."

"That's a muggle variant."

"If you recall our education was not exclusively magical."

"You never took Muggle Studies."

"Well, I'm full of surprises," he said. "Now leave it alone."

Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying to keep from smiling. He was so angry that he'd let on his knowledge about muggles and even more so that she knew.

"I'm sorry."

Her smile faded instantly, replaced instead by a worried frown. He picked up the morning paper again, turning the page and absently scanning the doctored headlines. The Death Eaters had weaseled their way into the Ministry only to corrupt laws and toss innocent muggleborns in prison. Azkaban was their personal holding pen where they treated those of non-magical parentage like animals. The Death Eaters had also infiltrated the Prophet, publishing purist doctrine and plastering the paged with wanted posters for any and all Order members. Draco didn't need to read the articles to know what they were about and he didn't need to wait for Hermione to ask why, which she would inevitably do out of confusion. Apologizing was out of character and it would no doubt confound her. As miserable as he was with his life he had no desire to make people suffer as much as him. It was better she knew now rather than later.

"About Potter," he said, his eyes fixed to the page.

"Wotcher!" a voice said happily.

Hermione jumped. Tonks froze before her foot touched the stone floor of the kitchen. Draco was leaned back in his chair casually, holding the paper in front of him with a preoccupied expression on his face. Hermione was sitting next to him but her chair was angled toward him. Her knee almost touched his under the table and she was looking at him with wonder.

"Sorry," she stumbled. "Did I interrupt something?"

Hermione looked from Tonks to Draco who was looking at his cousin with a raised eyebrow in a rather unimpressed manner. She then looked down at herself and realized she was leaning toward him, her body squared to his. She stood up quickly.

"No," she said. "Of course not. How are you?"

"Quite well and you two?"

"I'm fine. He's fine. We're—"

"Fine. Gotcha," Tonks grinned.

"Will Remus be here soon?" Hermione asked, clearing her throat.

"Hello?"

"Speak of the devil," Tonks grinned, turning to see her husband and Mr. Weasley come through the front door.

"Where's everyone else?" Hermione asked.

"We decided it would be best if we apparate from several locations rather than all of us collectively from one," Remus said.

"I don't remember that," she said.

"Well, Draco sent us an owl after our last discussion a few days ago," Mr. Weasley said.

"He did?" she asked, dumbstruck.

"Yes, _I_ did," Draco said, looking at her as she turned to him.

"Since when do you care enough about the Order's well being to take initiative?" she asked.

"Alright, alright," Remus said, stopping another argument from starting. "The point is he had some helpful suggestions we'd be wise to take into consideration."

"I'm sure he did," she said, eyeing the blonde wizard suspiciously.

"When's the rendezvous then?" Tonks asked.

"We'll be the first to arrive in Wiltshire at noon. It's a ways away from the manor, a bit of a walk, but we'll avoid detection that way. Mad-Eye, Fred, George and Charlie will join us shortly after. We can't risk having Poppy or Minerva there so Bill and Fleur will meet us once we are outside the grounds. We'll disapparate to different places, just as we arrived," Remus said.

"That leaves us about fifteen minutes to spare," Mr. Weasley said, checking the clock.

Remus, Mr. Weasley and Tonks began discussing the logistics of the operation. Despite the concrete plan that had been put in motion they were still very uneasy. There were enough wild cards to justify their concern. Oddly enough their trust in the source of their information was not a topic of heated discussion. It seemed Draco was beyond reproach because his older, future self was a steadfast and loyal member of the Order. Unfortunately it was not enough to convince Hermione. His willingness to participate made her suspicious.

Unable to shake her doubt she preoccupied herself, rinsing dishes from breakfast in the sink.

"You're right."

She looked over to her right. Draco was leaned against the counter next to her, ankled crossed, arms crossed. He looked perfectly at ease while everyone around him was tense and worried.

"Of course I am," she said, unsure of what he was referring to.

"I could care less about the Order and your holier than thou mission to rescue the basket-case in the dungeons."

"Then why are you so eager to help?"

"I have some...unfinished business at the manor."

"With Bellatrix?"

"Among others."

"You're going to get yourself killed parading around in front of them."

"And how do you think you're going to get in and out of the dungeons undetected?"

"You're distracting them so we can get Ollivander out safely?"

He groaned when he looked at her face. She was smiling at him with wide, bright eyes. He already regretted his choice of words.

"Calm down, Granger. I'm not doing this for any of you. It's just a happy coincidence that there is something at the manor that you and I need."

"Someone," she corrected him. "Ollivander is a person, not a thing."

"You need him for what he knows. You're after something."

"What do you know about it?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"The Elder Wand? A lot more than you, I expect."

"I've read everything there is to know about the Elder Wand. You couldn't possible know any more than I do."

"I'm sure you have," he said, leaning forward. "But there are some things you can't learn from book, Granger."

Draco watched her visibly tense up as he leaned forward. Her eyes were wide and she didn't move as he spoke. After searching her eyes for the satisfying confusion that was plainly obvious in them, he looked over her shoulder. On the opposite end of the room he could see Tonks watching them curiously.

"Time to go," Draco said, stepping back from the bewitched brunette in front of him.

"Right," Tonks said, quickly looking away as Draco approached them.

He walked by his cousin, unfazed, and toward the front door. Hermione dried her hands quickly on her jeans as Remus and Mr. Weasley followed Draco out the front door. She started toward the door and Tonks fell in step with her.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What was that back there with Draco?"

"Hmm? What was what?"

"You were talking by the sink."

"Oh, he was just being a prat. Nothing out of the ordinary," she said, shrugging it off as she stepped into the cool fall air.

She inhaled deeply. It was one of the few opportunities she had to leave the house and prove her usefulness to the Order. Researching was fine but it hardly seemed she was making a difference.

"When I came into the kitchen this morning you two were tense. You've been bickering like—"

"Like what?" Hermione asked.

"Like an old married couple."

"You would know having been married all of what, four months?" Hermione teased.

"You know what I mean," Tonks said.

"I truly don't," she said. "We're crammed in that house together. Not to mention I'm stuck with two of them. Tempers are bound to wear thin."

"I suppose," she said, eyeing the younger witch carefully.

Hermione was looking anywhere but at Tonks, scanning the empty street.

"Do you know where you're going?" Tonks asked.

"Unfortunately," Hermione said before visualizing the Wiltshire countryside outside of Malfoy Manor and apparating.

* * *

"About bloody time."

The irritated voice was the first thing she heard as she turned to look around the barren landscape. The flat plane seemed endless, interrupted occasionally by a lopsided and gnarly tree. or a gentle slope. Other than grandiose house in the distance the landscape was desolate. A shroud of darkness seemed to envelop Malfoy Manor.

"About halfway the others will meet us," Mr. Weasley said.

Hermione squinted and she could make out tiny dots encircling the grounds outside the manor. Dementors. Even the thought of them was enough to make her shudder.

"Cold?" someone asked.

She turned to look at Draco who was watching her.

"No," she said.

The others had already started toward the house.

"Come along," Remus called. "Keep up."

Hermione started through the tall, unkept grass and the uneven terrain. The reality of infiltrating Malfoy Manor hadn't begun to set in until that moment. She could feel her pulse starting to quicken out of fear and anticipation. It was in stark contrast to Draco's unnatural ease. He meandered behind her, hands in his pockets. The dreary house that put her on edge was what Draco called home up until a little while ago. She couldn't imagine a child growing up in such a gloomy place. She couldn't see anything else for miles around. No other houses, not a single sign of life. The solitude, among other things, was disconcerting.

As they neared the house Draco rolled up his sleeves until the Dark Mark was showing. Out of the gloom Mad-Eye and the rest of the Weasley's appeared. Hermione could just make out the greetings they exchanged over the wind. They joined the group ahead of Hermione and Draco, the twins looking back at them straggling behind. Mad-Eye no doubt had his magical eye fixed on Draco. The entire plan was hinging on whether or not Draco would come through for the Order. Given his history of extreme paranoia, Hermione couldn't imagine how high strung Mad-Eye was in that moment. He wouldn't let the Malfoy out of his sight.

"Here," she said, stopping abruptly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a wand. It was much more stylistically simple than hers, much more plain. It was slightly shorter than hers but it felt heavier in her hand than her own wand. It was made of strong, solid Hawthorn wood. "You'll need this."

He didn't look down as he took it from her. Hermione could feel his eyes on her so she kept her gaze downward.

"Thank you."

She nodded.

"Of course," she said. "Be careful."

He said nothing in response and Hermione continued at a brisk pace toward the manor. Draco continued to stand in the long grass, finally looking down at the familiar object in his hand. It felt both strange and familiar in his hand. He hadn't had it for so long yet it was like he had never let it go. For what he was about to do, though, he doubted if his wand would be of much use. Putting it in the pocket of his trousers he took off in long strides behind Hermione. The manor appeared with sharp clarity out of the din, looming up ahead.

Home sweet home, he though bitterly.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	11. Chapter Eleven: The Ties That Bind

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****Second term has officially gotten out of hand. Just when you think you've got university dialed down, even as an upper year, they just flip a switch and you're scrambling to figure out what the hell just happened. With reading week fast approaching my professors are laying the readings and essays on pretty thick, so I'm sorry for my lack of updates. BUT this one is pretty awesome, if I do say so myself. I love writing action scenes because I think they're so tricky to write. I want to portray the scene with some degree of clarity but I want to leave a lot of it up to your own wonderful imaginations!

A note on the large number of scene changes: I wanted to emulate those awesome action montages that appear in movies where all the different story lines converge into one epic scene at the end. I'm sincerely interested to know if it worked for you or didn't! Was it successful or not?

As I said there are some familiar canon faces appearing in this chapter, so look out for them! As per usual, excuse any grammatical or spelling errors (or better yet, let me know where they are so I can fix them!). I would also like to thank everyone who left reviews or marked Done All Wrong as a favourite! It's wonderful to know people are enjoying the story! So keep on leaving me reviews and let me know what you do and don't like!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

P.S. I've included a Doctor Who joke somewhere in the chapter because I LOVE Doctor Who...like, seriously love it. One of the best television shows EVER! So for those of you awesome readers who are Doctor Who fans, keep your eyes peeled!

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN  
****THE TIES THAT BIND**

"Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go by any rules. They're not like aches or wounds; they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material."  
_F. Scott Fitzgerald_

Everyone stood with their wands at the ready. Their eyes searched the thick fog that hung low over the grounds of Malfoy Manor. They couldn't see the Dementors but they could feel them. The crisp chill of autumn had turned bitter cold as they approached the manor.

"Anyone see anything?" Fred asked. "I can't see a damn thing."

"Fog's too thick," George agreed.

"Keep your voices down," Mr. Weasley whispered.

Draco made a sweeping diagonal gesture with his wand. He said nothing but the solid wrought iron of the gate dissipated, turning into a black smoke that faded into nothingness as he walked through it. He looked impatiently over his shoulder.

"They'll know soon enough that you're here. I'd be quick if I were you," he said. "As soon as you're in the foyer take the stairs to the right. You'll find the wandmaker in the dungeon."

He started toward the house. The 'good luck' issued by Remus fell on deaf ears as his silhouette disappeared into the wall of fog. Of course he would have no problem with Dementors. It probably didn't register that he was a threat of any kind. The rest of them on the other hand were not so lucky. A few steps on the gravel pathway and they were recalling their happiest memories and shouting out Patronus charms. Bursts of light illuminated the grounds. Hermione saw tall hedges on either side of the path. Other than that she could only see the stone stairs and the large black double doors of Malfoy Manor in the distance.

The Dementors bounded off the invisible shields protecting them. As long as someone kept up their charm they would be safe. Ironically, the happiness and joy that the Dementors fed off of created the one impenetrable wall they could not break through.

"Death Eaters!" someone shouted.

Sure enough hooded figures stepped out from within the maze of hedges. They were on all sides, effectively boxing them in. No one wasted any time. Curses and protection spells were firing from every direction, cutting bright paths through the dreary fog. Hermione trained her wand on the nearest Death Eater. The stranger removed the hood hiding his face but he was no stranger to her. She recognized his dark features immediately: Antonin Dolohov. She knew what he was capable of from both stories and experience. He'd murdered Mrs. Weasley's brothers in the last wizarding war. The last time she'd seen him was at the Department of Mysteries. He had cursed her despite the silencing charm she'd put on him. He was equally skilled in dueling and the Dark Arts.

"Granger," he said, smirking at her. "It's been a while."

His wand was trained on her and he watched her intently. He was a tall man with scraggly, untamed hair and day old stubble. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. They were cold and empty. His face was gaunt and his features were sharp and pointed.

"Not long enough," she said, gripping her wand tightly.

"Such negativity. Consider this an opportunity," he said, gesturing at the chaos happening around them. "It's not often you or I find ourselves with competent opponents."

"Competent?" she asked, her voice steady. "If I'm not mistaken you were bested by children the last time I saw you. A silencing spell and a Body-Bind curse, was it?"

She saw his jaw clench in anger. She knew better than to goad a dangerous wizard but this was personal. Most people considered her above petty insults and childish behaviour. She didn't feel like acting the responsible and level-headed witch everyone assumed her to be, not this time. She derived great satisfaction in knowing it only took a few words to upset him.

"Yes, well I don't see your..._friends_ here to help you now," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Look around," she said. "There are plenty of Order members more than willing to see you dead."

He made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Those were not the friends to which I was referring."

She glared at him.

"They aren't here, are they?" he asked, slowly circling her with long, easy strides.

She refused to take her eyes of him. She mimicked each easy step he took, turning in time with him. He waited for a response but her silence told him everything he needed to know. He threw his head back and let out a barking laugh.

"Well this is an interesting development I'm sure my Master will be very pleased with. The famous Harry Potter and his imbecile sidekick have left the only intelligent member of their little trio behind."

There was no mistaking Dolohov's absolute disgust with muggles and muggleborns alike. He was one of Voldemort's inner circle. He had been since the beginning. He defined her by her blood status. He viewed her as a challenge rather than an equal. She was an obstacle to be overcome, a problem to be fixed, a muggleborn to be exterminated. He derived joy in toying with her and dueling with her because she was far more capable than his average opponent. She could only imagine the warm reception he would receive from his loathsome peers when he had defeated the 'brightest witch of the age.' His compliments were not out of kindness or sincerity but a desire to extinguish her light, to undo the magic she had so wrongly been given. The only way to take away her magic was to kill her.

"They didn't leave me behind," she hissed.

"Dear me, have I touched a nerve?"

She said nothing but kept her eyes trained on him. All the shouting, the cracks and pops of spells and curses being cast were all ambient background noise. Every sound melded indiscernibly into another.

"You're an open book, Mudblood. So much to read," he said. "So little time."

Without pause he flicked his wrist nimbly. She already knew he was well trained in nonverbal magic.

She stepped back. "Protego!"

"Very quick. Efficient, stylistically simple. You're going to have to do a bit better than that, though."

He moved toward her. She couldn't hear him but she imagined it was a blasting curse he cast. She leapt out of the way in time to see the ground she'd been standing on a moment earlier blow up. She flinched as bits of gravel pelted her but wasted no time in retaliating.

She tried to get out a body-bind curse but he had wordlessly cast another curse. It hit her squarely in the chest. It felt like there was an immense weight sitting on her chest but as she flew across the front path she felt no pain. Not until she collided with the seven foot tall hedge, that is. Twigs and broken branches poked and stabbed her. She could feel the sting of many scratches but the minute pain was overshadowed by the ache in her chest. Something, most likely a rib, was broken. She gasped for air and tried to pick herself up out of the wreckage that used to be a carefully manicured hedge.

As she scrambled out of the ruined shrubbery both Fred and George ran past flinging curses at a helpless looking Death Eater. She was happy to see at least someone was making headway. All she'd managed was a broken rib and a violent temper.

"Sectumsempra," she hissed.

He made a large sweeping gesture with his wand, deflecting the curse and looking at her with twisted glee.

"Where did you learn _that_?" he asked. "Such naughty magic for a Mudblood."

A blasting curse caught him in the side and cut short anything else he had to say. Like Hermione he flew back. Instead of the somewhat soft hedges, he collided with the stone stairs.

"Hermione!" Remus shouted, running up to her. "Inside, go get Ollivander!"

She nodded and without another word took off toward the front entrance. She ducked as curses came out of the din from every which way. Purple flames, red and green jets of light. Every time a spell hit the pebbled walkway they were showered with small, smooth stones. She stepped over Dolohov's still body. She grabbed the large, ornate brass doorknob and wrenched it open, hurrying inside with her wand still at the ready. Given the greeting they received out there she wasn't taking any chances. The noise outside undoubtedly alerted everyone inside to their presence.

* * *

Draco had walked into grand foyer. It was cavernous. The marble floors were so clean you could see yourself in them. Off to the right were the downward spiralling stone stairs to the dungeon. Straight ahead was the grand staircase that lead upstairs. To the left was the door to the front sitting room. Behind that was the dining room where he was sure to find everyone he was looking for. Voldemort was notorious for spectacle. He would sit at the head of the table, the seat Lucius Malfoy had occupied his entire life, and dangle muggles and muggleborns in front of his mangy group of followers.

If they wanted a spectacle, Draco thought bitterly, he was more than willing to give them one.

* * *

The room was in complete silence. The tension was almost unbearable. Voldemort looked straight ahead toward a set of large doors that lead to a sitting room at the front of the manor. He seemed to be lost in thought. Though it seemed ludicrous for anyone to take their mind off of the poor wizard levitating over the centre of the long, ornate dining table, Voldemort seemed perfectly at ease.

The heavy drapes had been pulled and the only light in the dim room came from the fire. There was just enough light to make out the deeply etched face of Rufus Scrimgeour. The Death Eaters had taken over the Ministry earlier that year at the end of summer. Under the pretense that the former Minister of Magic would somehow be privilege to the information information he wanted, Voldemort had his Death Eaters track down the old wizard and bring him back to Malfoy Manor.

"Where is Harry Potter?"

The question was simple but he didn't just expect any answer. Voldemort wanted the correct answer, the only answer. He wanted Potter's exact whereabouts. Scrimgeour's life depended on it.

"I do not know—"

The former Minister for Magic said each word slowly, his voice broken.

"Do not patronize me, Mr. Scrimgeour."

Scrimgeour said nothing.

Voldemort slammed his fist on the table and stood.

"TELL ME!"

The doors to the large room swung open.

"My Lord," the breathless Death Eater said. "The Order. They've breached the grounds."

"What?" Voldemort hissed, his eyes narrowing.

"Alastor Moody and Remus Lupin," the hooded figure started.

"How did they get beyond the gate?" he demanded, glaring at the frazzled Death Eater.

"I don't—"

"HOW?" he shouted.

The silence was deafening. No one dared to speak.

"Get rid of them," he said finally, looking around the table at his followers. "Now."

A handful of them stood and left the room. The door closed and they were enveloped in darkness once again. Those in the room could see Voldemort was beginning to unravel. His plans were coming undone at the seams. He was faced with resistance he did not anticipate and it was beginning to make him desperate. Desperation did not suit the violent and the cruel, least of all the evil.

"Once we get what we need from the wandmaker Potter will come to you, m'lord," a quiet voice said quickly.

"I did not ask you to speak," he hissed.

His unforgiving glare made Bellatrix avert her eyes, looking at the table in shame.

"You are beginning to try my patience, Mr. Scrimgeour," Voldemort said, rubbing his temples.

Death Eaters watched him levitate with a morbid fascination and a child-like excitement.

"You cannot expect me to believe the former Minister of Magic is not privy to this information. I know you are aware of the Order."

"But I am not a part of it," Scrimgeour said, his watery eyes searching the soulless, serpentine face in front of him.

"I doubt that very much," Voldemort said.

"I'm telling you the truth," he insisted. "What could I possibly have to gain by lying to you?"

"A valid question," Voldemort said. "But I believe you are protecting Potter out of a misguided and highly delusional belief that it is the right thing to do. You are wrong, Mrs. Scrimgeour. You have nothing to gain and you have everything to lose. For example...your mind. You're well acquainted with Bellatrix Lestrange, are you not?"

The surly witch looked up with a twisted smile. She eyed the helpless man in front of her whose limp body was hovering a foot off the table. Scrimgeour didn't look at her and didn't say anything. He kept his fear-filled eyes on the inhuman monster sitting before him.

"I believe you were responsible for having her put in Azkaban during your time as an Auror. Quite impressive, Minister."

Voldemort glanced at Bellatrix. She needed no more permission than that. She stood and leaned toward Scrimgeour's face. Her dark eyes sparkeled with intensity. Like a coyote eyeing it's prey she looked over every square inch of his face, taking in the deep wrinkles and the downturned mouth.

"I never did get to thank you properly, _Minister_," she said, her spine straightening as she pulled herself to her full height. She looked down her nose at him and her smile widened into a crooked grin filled with crooked, yellowing teeth.

"Crucio," she hissed, almost laughing as the man began to convulse violently in front of her.

Everyone around the table looked on with approval with the exception of a few. Lucius Malfoy looked on pathetically and Narcissa averted her eyes.

A slow clapping cut through the silence. The curse was broken and Bellatrix looked up, her beady dark eyes searching the far corner of the room for the source of the noise. Rufus Scrimgeour crashed onto the table but no one took notice. They had all spun around in their chairs. Draco Malfoy walked out of the dark periphery of the enormous room with a final sharp clap.

"You," Bellatrix hissed, aiming her wand at him instead.

Narcissa's eyes widened and she made a sudden move to stand but Lucius thrust his hand out in front of her. She looked at her husband helplessly and then back to her son, her bright eyes glassy. Lucuis simply looked on with a hardened expression. There was no recognition of any relation. There was no trace of any emotion. Draco might as well have been a stranger.

A small smile spread across Voldemort's face.

"Ah, Draco," he said, extending his hand to an empty seat. "Have a seat."

"I'd rather stand."

* * *

Hermione took the stone stairs two at a time. They seemed to spiral downwards forever. Her steps were loud and rough, her heels sliding on the grit. As she reached the bottom she could make out a dingy room with a low ceiling, barred by an old iron gate that was severely rusted. Piles of what looked like old suit armor and broken furniture littered the edges and corners of the dungeon. Obviously the room didn't see many occupants before Voldemort used the Manor for his own misdeeds.

"Mr. Ollivander?" she asked meekly.

A quiet shuffling prompted her to raise her wand.

"Ms. Granger?"

The voice was quiet but she would remember it anywhere. It was a raspy voice but they belonged to a wise and seemingly ancient wizard. Ollivander's immense knowledge of magic was almost unparalleled. Even Dumbledore had referred to Ollivander on several occasions, especially with regard to the Elder Wand. It was for that reason that he was here, imprisoned at Malfoy Manor. It was also the reason she needed to get him out. He looked worse for the wear when he stepped up to the gate, squinting at her from behind bushy, white eyebrows. His clothing was rumpled and filthy, and everything seemed to be two sizes too big on his frighteningly thin frame. He barely looked recognizable to Hermione. The planes of his face were flat and sharp, devoid of any colour. His bright eyes seemed flat now, lacking their intelligent, knowing twinkle. Instead they were dull and empty, sticking out of sunken sockets.

"Alohomora," she murmured.

The rusty lock opened itself and she pulled the heavy door open.

"10¾″ vine wood, dragon heartstring core," Mr. Ollivander observed.

She looked at him, amazed. "Yes, that's right."

After a year of being locked up in this godforsaken dungeon he still had his mind. Who knows how many times he had been tortured for information, rather unsuccessfully it seemed. The Death Eaters knew little more about the Elder Wand than the Order. For an old man he was tough but Hermione could see in his spacey expression the toll his mistreatment had taken.

"A very light wood but strong too, and an exemplary core from a particularly plucky and quite beautiful Antipodean Opaleye. A wand with aptitudes for all kinds of magic..."

"You remember all that about my wand?" she asked, amazed.

"Yes, yes," he said, nodding. "I never forget a wand, Ms. Granger."

Good, she thought. She would be needing to know everything there was to know about the Elder Wand as soon as they were far away from Malfoy Manor. There was a sharp crash upstairs. Time was of the essence and they were wasting it by standing there.

"Let's get you out of here, shall we?" she asked, smiling as she hopped up onto the next step.

Ollivander was looking up at the ceiling with a despairing expression.

"The Order's here," she said, trying to reassure him. "They've all come for you."

She looked at him, hopefully. There was no way to understand what sort of hell he'd been through but she needed him to move. There was no doubt in her mind that Voldemort would know exactly what was going on the moment he realized the Order had shown up on the front steps of Malfoy Manor.

"Let's not keep them waiting," he said, offering a sweet, dreamy smile.

Hermione turned to climb the winding stairs with Ollivander right behind her.

* * *

"No welcome home for the prodigal son?" he asked, looking around the room at the hardened stares.

"You are not welcome in this house," Bellatrix spat.

"Have you come to repent? Or perhaps beg forgiveness?" Voldemort asked.

"And why should I feel guilty?" he asked.

"Where did you go?" Bellatrix asked, raising her eyebrows. "After you _ran_ away."

A chorus of quiet laughter made him clench his jaw in anger.

"Terribly funny, that is. I recall you told me I was dead the moment I tried to leave," he said, turning on Bellatrix. "And yet here I am, alive and well. I think you might be losing your touch, Aunt Bella."

They kept their eyes fixed on one another. A tangible chill seemed to fill the room accompanied by a stifling tension. It seemed like no one was breathing. The anxiety and anticipation was at an all time high as the two stared one another down.

"Enough of this childish behaviour," Voldemort snapped.

Draco looked at the serpentine wizard, staring into the cold empty slits that once resembled handsome eyes. He smirked but said nothing. It was glorious to be on the other side, to have a reason to toy with him and hang something over him. Voldemort had manipulated and tortured him since he'd become a Death Eater. For years he was no better than a pawn. Voldemort would get his comeuppance and after years of being mistreated Draco was more than willing to provide it.

"Do not try my patience," he warned. "Tell me where it is you went."

"I can't. I've been sworn to secrecy."

Everyone looked at him suspiciously but held their peace.

"Is that so?" Bellatrix asked. "I can think of a few ways to fix—"

"I assure you, they won't work."

Bellatrix scoffed. "An Unbreakable Vow."

"Wrong."

She pursed her lips and glared at him. Draco could see his mother visibly relax out of the corner of his eye.

"What is it then?" she asked.

"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you, would it?"

"If it's not an Unbreakable Vow perhaps Veritaserum or the Imperius Curse?" someone asked.

"Are you deaf?" Draco asked harshly, looking at the familiar faces of friends and family alike. "I told you it wouldn't work."

"He's bluffing!" someone shouted.

"Masterful," he deadpanned. "You've got me now. I came all this way to lie."

"Why did you come?" Lucius asked.

His voice cracked from misuse. It had lost its haughty and aristocratic authority. Instead it was just as cold and empty as he looked. Draco turned to him, careful to mask the shock he felt.

"To hedge my bets," he said.

"What does that mean?" someone asked.

"If you kill me in some pointless attempt to figure out where I've been I can die content in knowing the Order will be in here the moment I hit the floor."

"Therein lies your fatal flaw, Draco," Voldemort said.

"What's that?"

"Pride," he said. "In thinking the Order cares about your life, the cowardly Death Eater that betrayed his family for a group of Mudbloods, blood traitors, halfbreeds and other such filth."

"This is not a family," he spat.

"How sad that you know no loyalty," Voldemort said, ruminating on this idea.

"There's a difference between servitude and loyalty," he said.

"How long before you come crawling back when you realize they cannot give you what you want?"

"And you know what it is I want?" he asked, glaring at the hollow man in front of him. How could anyone so soulless understand the emotional complexities and contradictions that constitute the human condition?

"Redemption," Voldemort said. "You believe that you are good because you defected but you are not. There is a reason that Mark is permanent. I've seen the far recesses of your mind and you are filled with nothing but hate, vanity, and pride."

A laugh rang out that stopped his rhetorical tirade. Voldemort's expression quickly turned dark. Several people looked around, confused as Draco laughed. His mother looked worried that her son had lost his mind. Bellatrix glared and Voldemort watched him with a murderous rage.

* * *

Diligent as ever, Hermione checked to see if the foyer was empty before darting to the front doors with Ollivander. She stepped out from the uneasy silence of the manor into the dwindling chaos. Most of the Death Eaters had been incapacitated. They were either unconscious, dead or trapped in full body binds. Charlie Weasley was still in the midst of a heated duel with a Death Eater Hermione didn't recognize. Remus rushed towards them with the rest of the group close behind.

"Hermione, Garrick," Remus breathed, sighing in relief. "Are you two alright?"

"Fine, fine," he said, his shaky hands making a

"Perhaps we should take you to St. Mungo's, Mr. Ollivander," Fred offered.

"Don't be daft!" Moody barked.

"Yeah, are you mental?" George asked, slapping his brother upside the head. "The Death Eaters are probably crawling all over that place like dung beetles."

"They're bound to have people under the Imperius Curse," Tonks said. "That's how it started at the Ministry. Next thing you know they'll be Death Eaters in there attacking muggleborns instead of healing them."

"We should get you to a safe place," Mr. Weasley said, speaking directly to Mr. Ollivander. "We can have Madam Pomfrey come take a look at you. I'll send word to Minerva as soon as I can."

Exhausted, Mr. Ollivander simply nodded his head, his stringy white hair falling limply in his aged face.

"Quickly," Mad-Eye said gruffly. "Off with you. Portkeys are in place, go on."

"Charlie!" Mr. Weasley shouted.

In the moment of pause the Death Eater apparated. A thick cloud of black smoke trailed after him. Charlie hurried over using the back of his jumped to wipe away a smear of blood in the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"You, Fred, George, Bill and Fleur take Ollivander to the portkey," Remus said. "Nymphadora, Charlie, Mad-Eye, Hermione and I will apparate separately in case—"

"Wait," Hermione said, looking around. "Where's Malfoy?"

Fred shrugged.

"He didn't come back out?" she asked.

"No," Tonks said.

"We can't leave," she said.

"He's a big boy," Fred said. "He can take care of himself."

"Yeah, and I remember you thinking quite differently the other day," George said. "You were ready to feed him to the Death Eaters."

"Ow can you say zat?" Fleur asked, looking at Fred and George with a disapproving frown.

"Clearly you've never met Draco Malfoy," Fred said.

George snickered.

"That is enough," Mr. Weasley snapped. "This is neither the time nor the place. I want you all to get to the portkey _now_. It's getting late."

It was a rare occasion when the soft-spoken and jovial Arthur Weasley rose his voice. It caught everyone off guard when he spoke with such authority. He was right, of course. Their bickering and disagreements could wait until everyone was out of harms way. The Death Eaters had been dealt with for now but they were sure to be back. The Weasleys said their farewells and exchanged wishes of safety for one another. Arthur watched as his children started toward the endless planes of Wiltshire. Their pace was slow, impeded by Ollivander's inability to walk briskly but eventually they were murky shapes in the distance, hardly discernible in the gloom.

"We should go back," Hermione spoke up.

"He knows his way," Tonks said. "And he knows the plan. He'll be right behind us."

Hermione looked at her dear friend with unabashed skepticism.

"He knows the plan, does he? Well it's a good thing Draco Malfoy isn't at all impetuous and foolishly headstrong," she said.

Mad-Eye cleared his throat, eliciting pointed looks from everyone in the group.

"I think it would be in everyone's best interest if we were to leave as planned," Remus said.

"You can go," she said, looking at the remaining few.

"Hermione—" Remus started.

"I'm more than capable, Remus. You know that. Besides," she said, glancing up at the towering front facade of the manor. "It can't possibly be that big."

Merlin forbid it was bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside.

"Are you barking mad?" Mad-Eye demanded. "Do you know who's in there, girl?"

"Yes, I can imagine," she said rather grimly, holding her ground against the gruff and unpleasant wizard.

"I'll tell you who," he continued. "Lestrange—"

"You involved him in this, you made him a part of the Order," Hermione said, pointing at the individuals in front of her. "What would that come to mean if you left him in a house filled with the Death Eaters that, more than likely, want to see him dead?"

She could see the recognition of their aberration in their demeanor. They shifted uncomfortably, averted their eyes, winced, sighed. They felt guilt for being no better than the people they fought against. The Order prided itself and distinguished itself as being human, as being capably of empathy and compassion as opposed to the cold, heartless tactics of their opposition. The Death Eaters felt nothing or if they did they buried it so far down they forgot.

"Can you see him?" Remus asked, finally breaking the stretch of uncomfortable silence and turning his attention to Mad-Eye.

"Of course," Mad-Eye grumbled, his eye spinning wildly in its socket before locking onto a spot on the ground floor. "Back of the house, dining room. He has company, though."

"Company?" Tonks asked.

"You-Know-Who. A handful of Death Eaters," Mad-Eye said, his voice laced with disgust.

"Any bright ideas on how we'll get him out of there?" Tonks asked, looking at Hermione.

"Not a one."

"Brilliant," she said, nodding meekly.

"Any decisive plan would be pointless," Remus said. "We're outnumbered and outmatched. We'll have the element of surprise and we must use it to our advantage."

Hermione resisted the urge to say that she'd been right all along. Surprise was the most important asset they had.

"Wands at the ready," Mr. Weasley said.

"Constant vigilance," Mad-Eye insisted. "Constant."

"I wonder," Tonks said, drawing her wand. "If our plans will ever go...well, according to plan."

"Probably not," Hermione said, taking a deep breath as though bracing herself. "But where would be the fun in that?"

"What in the name of Merlin has gotten into you?" Tonks asked, mystified by her unusual behaviour.

"I'm just stretching my legs," she shrugged. "I've been shut away for far too long."

"And I think someone has been a bad influence on you," she said, raising her eyebrows.

Hermione shook her head and opened the doors to Malfoy Manor once again.

* * *

"What, may I ask," Voldemort said, his voice curt and unamused. "Is it you find so entertaining, Mr. Malfoy?"

"You," he said, the smile disappearing entirely from his face.

Everyone exchanged nervous glances.

"Please, do explain," he said. Although it was an open invitation the voice seemed to betray the words being spoken. It was the antithesis of inviting. It was a dare that would be met with frightful consequences should Draco accept it. Having no respect for his own person and a powerful desire to piss off the wizard that had ruined his life, he accepted the challenge wholeheartedly.

"You couldn't be more wrong. I don't think I'm good at all. In fact, I know I'm not because there is nothing I'd like to do more than to strangle the life from you. It fills me with disappointment knowing I won't be the one to do it. I can't, it's not written. But the moment Potter stands over your broken body to finish you off," Draco said, placing his hands on the dark cherrywood table and leaning towards the silently fuming monster in front of him. "I will be standing right behind him. Not because I am anything like the Order but because I am just like you. I want to rid the world of vile, filthy scum as much as you, and you are at the top of my list...right above my dear Aunt Bella."

At this point, Draco glanced over at Bellatrix with a crooked smirk. She jutted her chin out defiantly and had her wand in a vice-like, white knuckle grip. She was quivering so violently with anticipation and an overwhelming desire to kill him he could almost hear her body humming.

"My Lord!" someone shouted, storming into the room.

"WHAT NOW?" Voldemort roared.

"Potter."

"What?" he hissed, tearing his eyes away from the younger Malfoy.

"The Snatchers...they've got Potter."

"Where?"

"Here, m'lord."

"Show me," he said.

Voldemort rose swiftly and stormed out of the room, black robes billowing behind him. The room was left in a state of confusion and hesitation. Bellatrix hovered, half-standing, half-sitting. Others made no attempt to leave.

"I've yet to get to you," he hissed, his eyes fixed on Lucius as he left the room.

Of course Potter had managed to get caught, Draco thought.

* * *

"They're moving!" Mad-Eye hissed.

All of them were in a tight group, arms outstretched, wands gripped tightly. Their eyes were darting in every direction despite the advantage of Moody's magical eye.

"What?" Remus asked, his voice showing signs of worry.

They had stopped their slow, quiet steps toward the back of the manor. They were in an ornate living room, nearly identical to the one they had just passed through. How many living spaces did one family need?

"They're off towards the other side of the house."

"Is Draco with them?" Hermione asked.

"No, he seems to be heading in the same direction though...in quite the hurry..."

"Why?" Tonks asked.

"It's Potter," Mad-Eye said.

Hermione's body tensed. She forgot where she was and broke her concentration, turning quickly on Mad-Eye. Everyone looked at the batty wizard with similar expressions of shock, the same slack jaws and the same wide eyes.

"Harry?" she asked. "Harry's here? Is Ron with him?"

"Yes, yes..." Mad-Eye muttered, his eye spinning now.

"We need to go," Remus said. "Now. Find us the quickest way to—"

Remus never finished his sentence. The large Baroque windows looking out into the endless green of the manicured front lawn exploded, sending tracery and shards of glass about the room. Death Eaters materialized out of thick, putrid black smoke, already firing as many curses at the straggling group as they could. Shouts of defensive spells, hexes and curses filled the intimate and ornate space. No longer was it just another living room. It resembled a graveyard for antique vases and family heirlooms.

Her concern for Harry and Ron was replaced by the immediate problem at hand. She channeled all her focus into making sure she could get out of the room in one piece and find them.

"Granger!" Mad-Eye shouted. "Go! NOW!"

The old wizard turned with a sweeping gesture of his wand. The Death Eater he'd been dueling went soaring out the broken window he had come in moments before. Hermione needed no more instruction than that. With a final Body-Bind curse the Death Eater's limbs snapped together and with wide, unblinking eyes he keeled over. He hit the carpet with a dull thud and Hermione tore out of the room, racing in the general direction that Mad-Eye had been looking.

* * *

Draco slipped into the office on the ground floor, the one used as a library rather than his father's personal space of blackmail, threats and extortion. The bookshelves were wide and stretched from floor to ceiling. The one behind the desk was a door, though. He'd discovered it when he was a little boy, playing about in a room he was never allowed in. He'd never told his father or his mother that he knew of its existence and this was the only time it was of use to him. With long, deliberate strides he walked to the desk, knocking the chair out of his way. His fingers nimbly slid along the underside of a shelf before catching the small, inconspicuous latch. To everyone it was just a fault in the wood, a knot on the underside of a plank of rich, polished oak. Draco wrenched on it and there was a groaning sound. He pulled the large door open, knocking several books off the shelf on the facade. He blinked through the dust and parted the partition of cobwebs. Once inside the neglected, narrow hallway he closed the door behind him. He was engulfed in complete darkness before lighting his wand and continuing at a brisk pace toward the other side of the house. He had never been more thankful that his ancestors were a paranoid bunch of aristocrats with a penchant for the Romantic and the Gothic.

His steps were loud on the uneven stone floor. The walls were covered in peeling, dusty wallpaper that was more than likely as old as the manor itself. He knew exactly where they'd be holding Potter and Weasley. It wouldn't be in the dungeons despite the threat they posed (the fact they constituted a threat at all was laughable to Draco). Time and time again they managed to elude the Dark Lord and escape him, usually with exhaustive help from others, mind you. No, they wouldn't be in the dungeon. That made far too much sense. The Death Eaters loved a show and where better than a room reserved for entertainment? Draco reached the end of the passageway and threw open the door.

It was another large space but it was sparsely furnished and highly ornate as if for dancing rather than living. A wall of large glass doors opened up onto a veranda. Beyond that was a stone terrace and an English garden to rival the French masterpiece of Versailles. The stone floor was so bright, so clear and so highly polished you could see your reflection in it. There were three large, crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. They shook as the door crashed into the wall beside it, emitting the faintest tinkling in the otherwise silent room.

On the far side of the room the Snatchers flanking either side of a filthy looking, utterly dejected Potter and an equally pathetic Weasley started. Their eyes jumped to the paneled wall that had burst open. Potter looked surprised and Weasley looked outraged.

"_Malfoy_?" he spat. "The Death Eaters sent Malfoy?"

One Snatcher drew his wand but Draco disposed of him quickly and silently, casting a curse that incapacitated him in a less-than humane way. While Granger preferred the Body-Bind, Draco was a fan of causing the most damage with the least amount of effort. Potter looked at the limp body with confusion. He said nothing but Weasley started up again, unable to keep his mouth shut.

"What the bloody hell are—"

"Would you kindly shut the hell up you useless git," Draco hissed, his wand and eyes trained on the remaining Snatcher. Anticipating his attack Draco deflected it.

"Confringo," Malfoy hissed.

The wizard crumpled like paper.

The door at the other end of the hall opened up and the group of Death Eaters marched in, stepping to the side to allow Voldemort though. Some of them stood in a stooped manner more degrading than a bow. Their fear of Him had become a physical aversion to His presence. They dared not look up, their Marks burning out of Voldemort's anger. Draco winced and grabbed his forearm, squeezing it as hard as he could to quell the pain with a new one.

Voldemort glanced at Malfoy, his wand raising high enough to cast the Cruciatus Curse. Draco fell to the ground, strangled noises of pain slipping out from behind his clenched teeth. He was forgotten entirely as Voldemort turned to the lone figures at the end of the long room. Harry's eyes skipped from Draco to Voldemort's face. Though the serpentine wizard's narrow, slit-like eyes were focussed entirely on his face Draco still writhed on the floor.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome.

Harry glanced at Draco again.

"Oh," Voldemort said, noticing Harry's wary glances. "Mr. Malfoy is in the midst of an identity crisis it seems. It will all be sorted out...soon enough..."

The open-ended statement was enough for Harry to know how they would be 'sorted out.' Malfoy came from a sadistic family with a equally sadistic past and, of course, the company they kept were of a foul, violent nature.

Voldemort looked back at Harry and the curse was lifted. Draco's muscles visibly relaxed.

"We have much to discuss, Harry Potter," Voldemort said.

"I don't think I'll be discussing anything with you," Harry said, his voice filled with a defiance not befitting his rather dire circumstance.

"I'm sure, by now, you are familiar with the Deathly Hallows."

Harry said nothing.

"You are aware they are not just a children's story."

More silence followed.

"Come now, Harry. You need not be frightened. You are a guest," he said, looking about the room. "No one will harm you."

"I highly doubt that," Harry said.

"Not so long as you cooperate," Voldemort amended.

"There's always a catch," Harry said.

"How very fitting," Voldemort murmured. "There is always a catch. I have in my possession the Elder Wand, but you already know this, don't you, Harry? It seems...sometimes...our strange bond gives me away."

Voldemort paused to hear Harry deny it but the young wizard simply looked on with contempt.

"The wand does not respond to me. It...resists me. The wandmaker could tell me nothing I do not already now."

"Then what do you want from me?" Harry asked. "I don't know anything."

"Seek the far reaches of your mind," Voldemort hissed. "Dumbledore has undoubtedly hidden it there. You have the answer in the most innocuous of memories."

"I didn't even know about the Elder Wand until recently," Harry maintained.

"DO NOT LIE TO ME," he roared.

"Dumbledore never told me anything."

"If you won't tell me," Voldemort said, his hand disappearing inside his black robe. "I will simply have to look for myself."

"Diffindo."

Everyone turned to look at Draco, still on the ground. His wand was pointed steadily above the group of Death Eaters. Before they could look up the fine chain holding the grand chandelier in place snapped. The heavy metal frame filled with a seemingly infinite number of crystal and class pieces came crashing down on them. Several Death Eaters pushed, shoved, lunged and jumped in an attempt to get out of the way. Others were crushed instantly. Draco scrambled to his feet in the moment of confusion.

"GET THEM!" someone shouted.

Draco turned toward the approaching mob, conjuring Fiendfyre against his better judgement. A fiery beast rolled out of the tip of his wand, expanding and spreading at an alarming rate. Draco could hear the pained screams and desperate cries of several Death Eaters on the other side of the wall of fire.

"What the—"

"Shut up, Weasley," Draco said, approaching them. "Think any harder and your brain might implode."

Ron looked livid but Harry put a stop to any retort he might've been planning.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, looking at with a wary expression.

"Really?" he asked, irritated with them already. "Do you need me to spell it out for you, Potter?"

"You're a Death Eater!" Ron spat.

"And you're an idiot but I'm not holding that against you, am I?" Draco snapped.

"It's an act," Ron insisted, looking to Harry with wild eyes. "To get us to trust him!"

Harry looked at him through narrowed eyes.

"Where's your wand?" Draco asked, looking at Harry.

"It's broken."

"Perfect," Draco sighed.

Draco tossed his wand at Harry. It hit his chest and Harry clumsily caught it before it hit the hardwood floor. The heat from the fire was stifling.

"Out those doors and through the gardens. Once you're past the back hedges you can apparate. Grab your wand, Weasley."

Stunned into silence, Ron said nothing but searched the jacket of the Snatcher lying closest. He pulled out his thick, shabby wand.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked, the skepticism evident in ever word.

"Because Granger would kill me if I didn't," Draco said. "Now go before the entire house comes down."

"Hermione?" Ron asked, alarmed.

Harry and Draco exchanged a knowing look. If Draco was with Hermione and the Order it was enough for him. Harry was under no illusion Draco was suddenly a good person, but between a tortured, miserable life under Voldemort and a life with the Order as a social pariah, he could see why Draco had made the switch.

"C'mon, Ron. Let's go," Harry said, gripping Draco's wand tightly.

"That's it?" Ron asked, looking between the two. "No explanation?"

"Does it look like this is the best time?" Draco asked.

"Ron," Harry barked, opening one of the glass doors.

With extreme hesitation Ron cursed loudly and followed Harry out onto the veranda. Draco watched them break out into a sprint across the garden before tearing off towards the passage. He could barely hear anything above the roaring fire. His lung were burning from the heat and smoke. He shielded his face as bits of ash burnt small holes into his clothing and marred his exposed skin. Just beyond the wall of fire he could hear angry shouts and smashing glass. Potter and the Weasel better have gotten away, Draco thought angrily. Especially considering he had to give up his wand to the two most tactless people he'd ever met. Besides Longbottom, that is.

Draco hurried down the passage, through the office and toward the far end of the manor where he was less likely to run into anyone. Without his wand he was a sitting duck. Fighting the urge to cough heinously as his lungs burned, Draco wove his way through the familiar rooms and halls of his childhood home. He heard a loud, angry shout from up ahead. He eased himself against the wall, slowly peering around the corner to see two figures up against the wall. What looked like a romantic tryst was anything but. The rough, grating voice belonged to someone he knew too well: Antonin Dolohov. He was a member of Voldemort's inner circle, a man who had been a near constant in Draco's life. He was always stopping by the house to speak with Lucius about "private, grown up" matters before he was thrown in Azkaban.

The other figure was smaller in comparison but by no means compliant. Whoever it was it had to be a member of the Order. Draco squinted at the person, trying to make them out as Dolohov dragged them to their feet. He heard the word Mudblood and all the familiar features he couldn't place suddenly made sense. It was Granger.

What should've been nothing but another irritating deterrence instead incensed him. A surge of violent anger washed over him. His shoulders tensed, his fists clenched and his brow furrowed. Draco could feel his blood boiling. Although he had no wand and no way of defending Granger let alone putting up a fight (especially against Dolohov whose dueling skills were almost unsurpassed), Draco rounded the corner and walked toward the pair. His strides weren't loud but they were by no means stealthy. Each step was brisk and his eyes were fixed on Dolohov's vile profile.

* * *

Hermione wove her way through the nonsensical maze of hallways. Rooms led into identical rooms which lead to more rooms. There seemed to be an endless number of apartments in a house used for three people. For a moment she considered the walls were moving. She wouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't beyond the Malfoys to charm their house to trap a Mudblood. And trap her it did. She felt like a helpless mouse caught in a box. In this maze, though, there seemed to be no goal or end. She'd be there forever, wandering the sickeningly ornate house until she was a relic just like the decor and the priceless heirlooms.

She bounded around a corner, frantic now. She collided with something solid, sending her on her backside. She looked up to see Dolohov towering over her, clearly enjoying his view from the top. There was an alarming amount of blood on his face, dribbling down his scruffy chin and staining the dark collar of his dingy shirt. He looked so far beyond enraged it was manic and inhuman.

"You just won't die," he said. "You're like a cockroach."

He grabbed a fistful of her thick curls and wrenched her to her feet. Hermione let out a yelp, her scalp burning and her head aching. Unable to do anything but comply, she clumsily scrambled to her feet, twisting in his grasp to look at him.

"I could say the same for you," she said, her wand pressed against his chest. He looked down with an amused expression.

"Do you think bravery is a fault or a virtue, Mudblood?"

She said nothing as he carefully surveyed the topography of her face: her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her freckles.

"Because I think there is a fine line between bravery and stupidity. You're afraid and rightly so. I can see it in your uneasy steps and your shifty eyes. There's no one to help you now. Thinking you can kill me? I wouldn't entertain such an idea. It's not brave...but very, very stupid. And it's that stupidity, Hermione Granger, that will be the death of you."

"Reduc—"

He grabbed her wand roughly and pulled it from her grasp, tossing it beside them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw it land a few feet away, just out of her grasp.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said, his eyebrows raised as though reprimanding a child. "That's not nice."

She didn't see him grab his wand. Perhaps he'd had it all along and she hadn't taken notice. Regardless, the sharp tip was pressed firmly underneath her chin causing her head to fall back. She looked up at the high vaulted ceiling.

Without looking at him she jerked her knee upwards, catching him in the groin. He doubled over in pain, releasing the grip on her hair. She lunged for her wand but his hands were quick to pull and tear at her clothing.

"NO," he roared, pulling her back with such force she landed on her back. "You bitch!"

He grabbed her again, dragging her to her feet. He was both frustrated and highly entertained. She seemed to be living up to his expectations much to her chagrin.

"I'm going to enjoy watching the light dim in your eyes, Mudblood," he spat, his mouth pressed up against the shell of her ear.

His hot breath on her neck made her cringe. He loosened his grip on her clothing only long enough to secure his long fingers around her neck. His grip slowly began to tighten, his finger nails biting into her sensitive skin. Hermione could feel him shaking in what she imagined to be glee or anticipation. His eyes were wild and bright. Dolohov watched her like a science experiment, fascinated by the effects the lack of oxygen had on her body. He was amused by her lame attempts to pry his hand from her neck.

"Good bye, Hermione Granger," he whispered in her ear.

He pulled away and pushed his wand into chest. Her eyes began to flutter as she began to lose consciousness. There wasn't enough oxygen to stimulate her brain or keep her body functioning.

"Avada—"

"OI!"

Dolohov turned.

His grip was so tight she couldn't turn to look. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Draco approaching. She'd never seen him look so angry. His strides were deliberate and brisk. He didn't slow down once he reached them. Instead he pulled his arm back. The sneer on Dolohov's face didn't even reach his mouth before Draco punched him in the face. Draco put as much force as he could behind his fist. He was set on ruining Dolohov's face and inflicting as much pain as he could without his wand. The sound of his fist meeting the other wizard's face was strangely satisfying to Draco. The pain in his hand was immediate but it was, at the time, almost entirely overshadowed by the sight of Dolohov crumpling like parchment.. As soon as his hand fell away from her neck she gasped for air. It wasn't a relieving sensation in the least. The air scratched roughly at her throat, her lungs expanded but they felt like they might burst. She too collapsed to the floor, sliding the length of the wall.

Dolohov picked himself up. He was a mess. His nose was still bleeding from an earlier blow but now his gums were bleeding too.

"You're _dead_," he spat, running his tongue along his blood-stained teeth.

Draco said nothing but reared back and punched him in the face again. This time he could hear cartilage breaking beneath his fist. When Dolohov hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud he did not get up again.

"Granger," he said, crouching down beside her.

She said nothing, not trusting her ability to speak.

"C'mon," he said, his bruised and bloody hand cradling her jaw. "Get up, Granger."

She opened her eyes, surprised at the tenderness of his touch.

"Are you okay?"

His expression was peculiar. His brow was slightly furrowed and his mouth was a hard line but his eyes were much softer. She nodded and he hauled her to her feet.

"Good," he said. "We have to leave. Now."

"Where are Harry and Ron?"

Her voice was hoarse and the words came out in a broken staccato.

"They're gone."

"What?" she asked, a wave of anger, fear, and anxiety washing over her.

That was it, that was all he was going to give her? She hadn't seen them in months and when she heard from them it was never personal. She didn't know if they were alright, if they were safe. All they ever sent her were tips and bits of information. Her chance to see them was gone and Draco didn't seem to care all that much.

"Stop talking," he said, grabbing her elbow and starting down the hall quickly.

He bent down to pick something up and absently handed it to her, his eyes moving from one end of the hall to the other. She took her wand but continued to glare at him. After what had just happened how could he be so brash and unkind?

She opened her mouth to speak. The little hitch, the intake of air before she could say anything was enough to tip him off. Draco turned around.

"This is not the time, Hermione."

He tightened his grip on her elbow and pulled her along.

* * *

"Let me see," she said, holding her hand out impatiently.

"It's fine."

"It's _broken_. It's not fine."

He stared at her like a petulant child, his hand hanging limply at his side. He was being impossible, of course. He'd been in a foul mood as soon as they had walked in the front door. Several people had been waiting when they arrived at Grimmauld Place. Following the unfortunate formality of verifying identity, they moved to the kitchen. Hermione filled them in on what had transpired even though Draco was much better suited to do so, having actually been in the room. He irritably mustered a few lackluster sentences about Harry and Ron but made it quite clear he was in no mood to talk. Clearly Draco did not get the closure he'd been looking for. After this, everyone left for much needed medical attention and rest.

She snatched his hand roughly.

"Shite," he shouted, wrenching his hand from her grasp.

"If you'd quit being such a baby—"

"If you possessed any social graces whatsoever," he said, cradling his purpling hand. "There would be no problem."

"_You're_ the problem," she said.

"Lovely beside manner."

"You've only broken a knuckle. Beside manner is hardly necessary."

"I hope you aren't considering a profession in Healing after this ends," he said, reluctantly holding out his hand. "Given a choice between your help and death, I'd choose death."

"Yet here you are," she said, shooting him a pointed glare.

He ignored her as she observed the damage to his hand. His knuckle seemed to have taken the brunt of the abuse, but his finger was crooked and the top of his hand was severely bruised. The miniscule hairline fractures there were enough to cause an uncomfortable amount of pain.

"Why did you punch him?" she asked. "I thought that sort of behaviour was beneath someone like you."

"Believe me, it is," he said. "Muggle dueling is crude and barbaric. It's also completely mental. In order to inflict pain you first have to hurt yourself. Rubbish."

"You never hit someone in the mouth with a closed fist. Look what his teeth did to your hand," she said. "You didn't answer my question though."

His knuckles were cut up from Dolohov's teeth. Now that she thought of it, he probably wasn't aiming for the dark wizard's mouth. He was just hoping to hit anything, most likely. Draco had never thrown a punch in his life.

"Your useless friend Potter took my wand."

"He _what_?" she asked, looking up in surprise.

He sighed rudely.

"You heard me," he said, clearly unhappy at the thought let alone having to reiterate it. "Potter. Took. My. Wand."

"Why?"

"Because he's a twat."

She glared at him.

"Because," he said, shifting in his seat irritably. "He had no wand."

"What happened to his?"

"How the hell would I know? I'm not his keeper and it's not like we sat down for tea and biscuits. We were a bit preoccupied."

"He stole your wand, then?"

"No."

"You _let_ him take it?"

"No, I didn't let him take it. I gave it to him.

"You helped Harry?"

The skepticism rolled off her tongue thickly.

"Seems ludicrous to you because you think I'm a heartless bastard, but if Potter dropped dead you'd never let me hear the end of it. I'd have to listen to you wailing and shrieking and I quite like my sanity, believe it or not."

She ignored his quip. "What will you do without a wand?"

"Die," he sighed, bored with the conversation. All he wanted to do was go upstairs and stew over what had—or rather, hadn't—happened. He didn't get an ounce of the vindictive joy out the his trip home as he'd hoped for and all he'd managed to do was attract more attention to himself. He wasn't just missing, he wasn't just a suspect, he was a traitor now. He'd dug his grave and now he had to lie in it. There was really no going back after this. If Potter and his blathering sidekick hadn't spoiled everything his options might've been different. Much to his dismay, he was stuck at Grimmauld Place and stuck helping the Order unconditionally.

"Don't me so overdramatic."

"You've noted on numerous occasions I am nothing but a useless, spoiled brat lacking any and all practical skills. I believe your exact words were 'we'd finally be rid of you because you'd starve before you figured out how to boil water.'"

"I might've been a little bit unfair...sort of."

"Was that supposed to be an apology?"

"Of course not," she said quickly.

"Good. I thought for a moment you might've had a fit."

"Would you like your hand fixed or not?"

"There's nothing wrong with it!"

"Malfoy," she said, exasperated. "It's purple and your missing a knuckle!"

"It's not missing."

"Well it certainly isn't where it's supposed to be."

"I am not letting you come near me with a wand."

"Why not?" she asked, the pitch of her voice jumping an entire octave.

"So you can channel all your hatred into some hex or curse that'll make my hand fall off? I don't think so, Granger. You set me on fire last time you—"

"That was an accident...and I didn't have my wand then. I know how to perform a basic healing spell. _You_ know that. You're almost as bad as Harry, you know."

"Me? Potter? You have lost your mind. Brilliant."

"It's true," she insisted. "I'm always mending his broken bones or healing his cuts and bruises as best as I can. Sound familiar?"

"Not a bit."

"You should take it as a compliment."

"The fact that you would willingly give me a compliment is enough to worry me let alone the thought I am anything like that whiny, self-deprecating git."

"Right," she said. "I forgot, you love yourself far too much."

Before he could confirm the truth of that she snapped his bones back into place. Draco winced as everything jumped back into its right spot. The knuckle that had dropped was once again aligned with the others and the swelling began to go down. She was already on her feet and out the door when he opened his eyes.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	12. Chapter Twelve: Restless

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

****It's been a long time since I last updated, I know! I promise you I'm not abandoning this story, I just ran into a bit of writer's block. This chapter is by far the most difficult one I've ever had to write and you'll see why. I apologize if the aforementioned reason why this took me so long is underwhelming (you'll know what part I'm talking about once you've finished the chapter). I really tried!

As for the plot development in the last chapter, there's a strategic reason why Harry and Ron left separately at Malfoy Manor instead of going back to Grimmauld Place (you'll see why!). Other than that there's not much else to say...so read and review lovelies!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**  
**RESTLESS**

"A dream has power to poison sleep."  
_Percy Bysshe Shelley_, "Mutability"

He stood in the bathroom and stared at the pale, listless face in front of him. The dark circles under his eyes made them looked sunken and empty. His skin was sallow and devoid of any warmth and his mouth was fixed in a hard line. He hadn't slept in days.

Every night he was consumed by dreams of Grimmauld Place. Granger was in every single one.

His dreams they were hardly cause for sleepless nights. They were completely ordinary, mundane in the extreme, but they had a nightmarish quality he couldn't shake. He could've forgotten them entirely had they not been so frighteningly vivid. It was more than a visual experience. In his dreams he could smell her perfume and he could feel her skin on his. It wasn't as if he were some omniscient observer. He was in them, he could feel his body. Dreams, those surreal and fragmentary glimpses into your unconscious, had become sensory experiences that were all too real.

He also had dreams of them together. They were unwarranted and disturbing. In every dream he was so far from himself he seemed unrecognizable. If she fell asleep on the couch he covered her with a blanket or carried her to a bed they shared. When she was hurt he took the trouble to soak a cloth in warm water and wipe away the blood. If she was cooking he came up behind her and and kissed her neck. When he took her to bed he pressed his lips to every inch of her body, he covered her petite frame with his and, for a single moment, lost himself in a warm, inviting delirium.

It started a few days after the incident at Malfoy Manor. At first he chalked it up to stress but the dreams persisted. Every night, like clockwork, he would succumb to sleep out of exhaustion and the scenes of everyday life would bombard him and overwhelm his senses. His latest dream looked like any ordinary morning at Grimmauld Place. He could hear the stairs groan as Hermione made her way to the kitchen. As she walked past he could smell the shampoo she used that morning. It was something floral. When she spoke her voice was soft and feminine, exactly what he thought a woman's voice should sound like. He didn't reply and she proceeded to move about the kitchen. The open and close of different drawers and cabinets was rhythmic and soothing in its familiarity. Under his thumb he could feel the coarse newsprint and smell the tangy odour of ink. He read the paper and skimmed the names on a long list. The silence was interrupted when she knocked over a bottle of milk and cleaned it up with a kitchen cloth. When she finished with that the front door opened and Lupin walked into the kitchen.

And then he opened his eyes to a flat, black ceiling. If he hadn't woken up he wouldn't have been able to discern that he'd been dreaming at all. Everything was too real to him to be just a dream.

He was drenched in a cold sweat, shaking in the cool room. Nothing particularly frightening or horrid had happened yet he could not shake the strange, unsettling feeling that clung to him like his damp shirt. The rest of the night was spent in tossing and turning. He couldn't figure out if it was an inability to fall back asleep or an unwillingness to that kept him up until the early hours of morning. As the sun began to rise and he could see the shape of his dresser and his desk became visible in the dark he could no longer lay in bed. He threw off the covers and pulled on a tired, worn out jumper. The sleeves were stretched out of shape and the fabric was thin. He sauntered to the bathroom and listened to the stillness of the house.

And now he standing in the bathroom, looking back at the stranger that glared at him through tired eyes. He turned the faucet on and splashed his face with cold water. He looked back up at himself as though expecting a change. He looked just the same only now his blonde hair was plastered to his forehead and beads of water ran down the straight line of his nose, curling over his lips and along the curve of his high cheekbones. He sighed and dried his face with the sleeve of his jumper. As he made his way downstairs he skipped the last step. It would let out a horrendous creaky whine if he stepped on it, one that would surely disrupt the perfect silence of the house. Grimmauld became King's Cross during the day. People were in and out all day and he wanted to hold onto any quiet, any calm he could salvage before the floodgates opened.

He still didn't know how to make coffee but tea would suffice. Much for her own amusement Granger had finally taught him how to put the kettle on. Not only did she love lording her superior knowledge of the crass muggle lifestyle over him she loved to see him so far removed from his element. Snatching up the paper he took his usual seat. The Prophet did nothing but perpetuate fear and madness. If Potter wasn't being accused of some crime or another there was an article on the initiative to strip undeserving muggleborns of their magic, to purify and cleanse, to protect those family whose magic was their birthright. The Death Eaters had successfully weaseled their way into the offices, whether by coercion or bribery, and taken over. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting at the table before Granger walked in.

She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater. She looked no different than she did any other day. That should have made him feel better about the wave of deja-vu that overwhelmed him but it didn't. She looked up and caught him staring at her.

"How's your hand?" she'd asked.

Pleasantries were something rarely exchanged between them for fear of being too comfortable with the other. They reserved their conversation to topics of necessity rather than leisure.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unable to shake the illusory nagging feeling in the back of his mind. "Sore," he told her.

"I thought it might be. You just need to relax and give it time to heal."

He didn't ask about her neck but he could see the ugly green and yellow spots from where he sat. It was a huge improvement from the mottled shade of red and purple it had been in the days after the incident. Day after day it faded, though. Soon they would be gone and he could try to forget the violent wave of anger that washed over him every time he saw her marred skin. Shaking his head he held the paper up in front of his face, effectively blocking his view of her and creating a physical divide between them.

For whatever reason she was putting him off more than usual. Although it was pointless considering how often their paths crossed Draco still clung to the the mantra 'out of sight, out of mind,' repeating it over and over again in the hopes she would become a peripheral thought rather than the only thought he had at all.

He scanned the pages with no real interest until a list caught his eye. There was one boldface word written above it: WANTED. Following each name there was a list of 'crimes' committed and the reward for turning in said individual to the 'authorities.' Almost everyone in the Order was listed. There were muggleborns and halfbloods listed as well, those that had presumably gone into hiding after the Ministry had been toppled. Potter was listed as enemy number one, no surprise there. But toward the bottom of the list he found his own name. Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't a surprise considering where he was and what he'd done at Malfoy Manor. The pang in the pit of his stomach wasn't shock or disbelief, it was something much more visceral. Like a physical response he was remembering, a familiar feeling, something he'd felt before.

"Do you—"

It clicked. The proverbial lightbulb flickered to life. Everything he'd felt since she'd walked in seemed like an echo of a recent past and now he knew why. He had walked into his dream but this time there was no waking up from it.

"I'm not hungry," he said, unable to take his eyes off the paper.

"I wasn't going to ask you if you where hungry," she lied, slightly irritated by his rudeness. "I was going to ask—"

"If I wanted toast," he finished. "And I said I'm not hungry."

She wanted to verbally berate him for being so unnecessarily rude but when she turned to him she stopped herself. She couldn't see his face. It was blocked by the morning edition of the Prophet but the paper was crumpled in his fists and his knuckles were white. She could see the pages shaking minutely. She walked over and peered around the wall of newsprint he'd put up around himself.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked.

He didn't say anything and she hesitantly covered one of his fists with her hand. It was meant to be comforting because he was clearly distressed about something but the effect was the exact opposite of this. He slammed his fists down on the table, effectively wrenching his hand away from hers, let go of the newspaper and stood abruptly. The legs of the wooden chair scraped roughly against the floor, catching on the uneven stone tiles and toppling over. The pliant wooden frame bounced as it hit the floor and the hollow sound echoed in the kitchen. Hermione started and her hand hit the bottle of milk that had been sitting on the table. The bottle tumbled over and skated across the table, spilling milk everywhere.

It should've shattered on the stone floor as it fell off the table but it didn't.

The moment she hit the milk bottle he knew what was going to happen. The vague sensation of deja-vu was no longer an inclination or a feeling but a series of events he could see and predict. He reached his hand out quickly and caught the bottle before it could break on the kitchen floor.

Draco glared at her.

Hermione opened her mouth to speak.

"Don't apologize," he snapped.

She closed her mouth, her eyes wide. His anger unnerved her and she stood completely still. Draco was behaving like a madman. He was being brash and irrational and her presence alone seemed to upset him. She watched as the milk continued to drip over the side of the table and onto the floor. She considered cleaning up the spilt milk but before she could finish her thought he reached out and grabbed her wrist, stopping her pivot short.

"And don't even think about grabbing that ruddy dish towel."

Hermione looked back up at him, her wide-eyed expression turning sour.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked, wiggling her hand out of his grasp.

"Nothing," he lied.

"I'm just going to clean up the mess."

"Don't," he repeated. "Just stop...don't do anything."

"You're being absurd," she said.

"You always clean like a muggle," he said, his voice curt and unkind. "You're a witch, why don't you use magic?"

"How many times do I have to explain this to you?" she sighed. "Instant gratification is damaging to your personal development...that is assuming you are a person, of course."

"Right, I forgot. I'm soulless, I'm not a 'real' person."

"You haven't done anything to suggest otherwise."

"You're not serious? I saved your nitwit friends from being tortured to the point of insanity, most likely. I did the entire wizarding world a favour by keeping your precious Potter in one piece. I even gave that idiot my wand! You should be thanking me or, better yet, apologizing for your self-righteous attitude, instead of being an uptight, ungrateful—"

She shoved him before he could finish his sentence. He stumbled, slightly taken aback by her uncharacteristic brashness. He quickly recovered his surly expression, though, and glared at her.

"You're a right arsehole," she hissed. "You are perhaps the most unpleasant person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. After everything I...we've done for you, you'd think you would be able to at least pretend to be nice."

"Nice? Why would I bother to be nice to you? Everything you do is motivated by your unrealistic desire to be everyone's friend. You're the worst pretender of all. You don't want to be my friend, you just want to be well liked. And let's face it, I'm here because I'm useful but the moment I stop being of use I'd like to see what you'd do for me, Granger."

"I'd—"

"Shut up and listen," he said. "No matter how terrible I am to you, you fix me up if I'm bleeding and broken. You want _me_, the one person that's not convinced you're a saint, to trust you and to care about all the same pointless things you do. But that's never going to happen, Granger. And you're stuck here because you let those two idiots tell you what to do. You locked yourself up in this hovel because you want to make them happy. That oaf Longbottom could be a Secret Keeper but instead you volunteer for the job? Doesn't sound like the Granger I know because you and everyone else would be better off if you were roaming the countryside with Potter and the Weasel on their nonsense crusade to save the bleeding world. But that's not what happened, is it? Instead of being your stubborn, obnoxious self, instead of putting up a fight to do what you know was the right thing to do, you rolled over. And what did that get you? Absolutely nothing. Worse than nothing because you're stuck here with me, day in and day out. You and Potter are two of a kind, both so desperate for approval."

"There is nothing wrong with wanting everyone to be happy!"

"You are so delusional!" he shouted. "Don't you realize how skewed your idea of 'happy' is? Everyone else's happiness comes at the expense of your own! Sounds miserable, if you ask me."

"Well I'm not asking you and how would you know? You haven't taken the time to get to know me or anyone else for that matter. You've only been here a few months and all you do is complain about how horrible it is here, how horrible I am!"

"You're right. I can't stand this," he said, gesturing to her. "Because I know it's not you. At least if you're insisting on having everything your own way like the bossy know-it-all you were back at school I can admire your backbone. Now you're just...spineless. I may be unpleasant but at least I'm up front about it. I have been honest from the start. You know who I am but I have no idea who Hermione Granger is. You're about as inauthentic as they come and let me assure you, this farce you've got going on...it's not convincing, darling."

"Get out," she hissed.

"I can't. We have company," he said.

"There's no one here."

"Lupin."

Just then the front door opened.

"Hello?" a voice called.

Hermione's eyes widened.

Draco smirked. On the outside he was smug and composed but on the inside he was suffocating. The walls were closing in on him. The house itself was a prison but she was a carceral force all on her own. There was no getting away from her. She was almost always there, right in front of him. Even when he couldn't see her he could hear her. If he couldn't hear her she was on his mind. Every night he dreamt about her. Every waking thought he had somehow came back to her. She was a walking, talking contradiction and no one had ever incensed him more than her. He was overwhelmed by the desire to ruin her as well as the self-destructive need to put together the pieces that he had ruined. She put on a good show that no one seemed to see through but she wasn't fooling him. Anyone that said they were happy in the midst of all the terror and uncertainty was either an idiot or a liar. He was hell bent and determined to show her the errors of her ways just so she would come to him, broken down and spent, and need him. That was all he wanted, or needed, from her. He had a stifling, a deep and ugly desire just to be needed by someone. As it were, solitude and loneliness could instill desperation and yearning in the most hateful and offensive man.

Before Remus opened his mouth he could see past Draco into the kitchen. The room was a mess and Hermione's flushed face coincided with Draco's surly scowl. Nonetheless he offered a pleasant smile as Draco walked toward him.

"Hello, Draco."

"Lupin," he said curtly.

Draco breezed past him in the hallways and turned to the right to climb up the stairs to his illusory reprieve, his false sense of escape. No matter how many floors there were between them Hermione always managed to get under his skin. Although he was riled up and unsatisfied—a seemingly perpetual state of being for Draco—he could claim some small victory. He had shown her something she didn't want to see and she wouldn't forgive him for that. There was no way she could feign ignorance now, she had looked into the abyss.

Remus watched Draco disappear up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He turned to Hermione and watched her wince and close her eyes at the sound of a door slamming somewhere upstairs. He slowly walked into the kitchen. It was a disaster.

"Everything alright?" Remus asked.

"No," Hermione said. "It's really not."

Remus wasn't quite sure what he could say to make anything better. Their attitudes toward one another had not improved. He assumed after the events at Malfoy Manor that they would find common ground, perhaps come to an understanding, but it appeared his hopes were dashed by this latest spat between them. Hermione shook her head lightly, willing her mind to be clear of all the troubling thoughts racing through it.

"I didn't know you were stopping by," she said.

"I hadn't planned to but something's come up."

"You haven't spoken to Malfoy recently, have you?"

"No, why?"

Hermione frowned. How did he know Remus was stopping by? "No reason. You said something happened?"

"Severus has been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts."

"What?" Hermione asked. "The school year has already started. They can't just _depose_ Professor McGonagall."

"I hardly think the Death Eaters are concerned with decorum, Hermione."

"The Death Eaters" she repeated slowly.

Remus sighed. "It was Voldemort's doing. The Carrows have been put on the 'teaching' staff as well."

"The Carrows?"

"Yes. Amycus and Alecto."

"Why? Do they suspect Snape?"

"I don't believe so," Remus said. "I image they're there to enforce the new system. They are at Severus's disposal."

"What does this mean?"

"It means that Hogwarts is no longer safe."

"But Snape is a member of the Order. It can't be too much of a set back," she said, though the prospect was hardly reassuring.

"I'm afraid the Carrows are not the only ones Severus has to contend with. There are as many students that are Death Eaters as there are that are part of the Order. For his protection we're limiting his involvement. There are far too many eyes on him now so we must be careful."

* * *

Draco was still shut up in his room. He hadn't come out all day, not even after Remus had left. The house had been oddly silent, though. There hadn't been any visitors. On her way upstairs Hermione paused on the third floor and listened for a long time. His room was silent. She continued up the stairs to the fourth floor and without pause, without knocking, she flung open the door on the right.

The other, older Draco was on his bed. He had his arms behind his head and his ankles crossed. He didn't even flinch when she barged in. Instead he turned his head lamely to look at her.

"This is becoming something of a habit, Hermione."

"You said you wanted to change the bad things that happened, right?"

"I did," he said, proceeding with caution. "Why?"

"Snape is Headmaster and the Carrows are running Hogwarts."

"You're worried about Snape?"

Hermione thought about it.

"No. Snape is foul and cruel but he's always been faithful to Dumbledore. I'm worried what he'll have to do with the Carrows breathing down his neck, though."

"Hogwarts is the least of your concerns."

"I have friends there," she said, trying to keep her voice down.

"And they can handle themselves."

Draco could see he was upsetting her. It was a topic of conversation that quickly inflamed her temper. Friends were not always a large concern of his. When he was at school he shamelessly used people and identified them as just that, the purpose they served. He didn't seek out companionship so much as a bulwark. He acquired notoriety, infamy, and popularity from the people he associated with and unless they had something that could benefit him, they were nothing more than nameless faces. Hermione was much different. She internalized the thoughts, concerns, hopes, and aspirations of everyone she met. She cared deeply, perhaps too deeply. For the longest time it made no sense to him. There seemed to be no profit in such an expenditure. The more time he spent with her, though, the more attracted he became to her sincerity and her empathy.

"Listen to me," he said, propping himself up on his elbows. "They only have two Death Eaters to manage. I promise you they'll be fine."

"I can't sit here and do nothing," she said. "I have to help."

"Researching Horcruxes is not nothing," he assured her. "You have to keep your priorities in mind. I know it's hard considering you're here..."

"I have to do this," she insisted. "You said so yourself. You told me I was being spineless by letting people push me around—just like you're doing right now, trying to dissuade me—but I'm telling you I won't wait here idly for something terrible to happen. Not when I can keep it from ever happening at all."

Draco sighed.

"Just ignore me," he said.

Hermione looked at him, confused.

"I mean my younger, more impetuous counterpart. It shouldn't be that hard," he said, grinning. "You do it all the time."

"I was so angry with you," she confessed, walking over slowly and sitting at the foot of his bed. "When you said those things to me."

Draco didn't say anything. He watched her as she fiddled with the hem of her jumper.

"Everything you said about me was right but I dismissed it...I dismissed you."

"Why?" he asked.

She looked up at him.

"I didn't want to hear it from you of all people. I don't like to think that you somehow now me better than I know myself."

"Would it be so terrible?"

She forgot who she was talking to. It was an odd situation to say the least, confiding in Draco about Draco. They were so entirely different from one another, though. It was easy to forget.

"No, of course not. It's so difficult to think that you are what he becomes, especially after a day like today."

* * *

"Snape," she said, surprised to see the former Potions Master at the bottom of the stairs.

"Draco sent for me," he said.

Hermione assumed he meant the younger because she had been with the other Draco for a large part of the afternoon. As she was coming down the stairs she noticed the door across from hers on the third floor was open a bit but there was no light or sound coming from within. There was a warm glow coming from the study on the second floor though and she assumed that was where he was.

"Is everything alright?" she asked.

"I might ask you the same question."

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"He seemed quite distraught."

"Well..." she started, shifting uncomfortably. For reasons she couldn't explain she suddenly felt guilty. Divulging this information wasn't betraying his trust per say but if Draco saw it that way then he deserved it. He was rude and presumptuous, and she hadn't forgiven him for his earlier behaviour.

"He hasn't been sleeping and I can hardly keep up with his violent mood swings. One day he'll be fine, polite even, and the next he's looking for reasons to cause a fight," she said.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since the day at the manor."

Snape nodded.

"He's upstairs in the study," she said, climbing down the last few stairs to allow him access.

"Thank you," he said.

Hermione didn't linger in the entrance way but continued on her way to the kitchen. Snape briskly climbed the stairs and turned into the study. The young blonde wizard was sitting on the arm of the couch closest to the fire. Although he was seated he was anything but calm or relaxed. His heel was bouncing irritably on the carpeted floor and his eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl as he glared at the fire. It was not reassuring to see him so visibly shaken.

"You asked to see me."

The young man looked up at the sound of Snape's voice. Out of a reckless and juvenile need to speak to someone he had sent Snape an owl. He had developed an absurd theory but despite its ridiculousness Draco had to tell someone. Perhaps saying it out loud would confirm its impossibility. Regardless of whether or not he was crazy for thinking it at all, Draco was reassured by the fact that Snape would have the answers. He always did.

"Something's wrong with me," Draco said, getting to his feet and pacing in front of the fireplace.

The pleasant sound of crackling wood and the warm glow of the fire were doing nothing to calm him. All of it was luring him into a false sense of comfort when, in reality, he felt like he was slipping into an abyss without anything anchoring him to reality.

"Care to elaborate?"

How could he say it without it sounding ridiculous, even by magical standards?

"I'm having dreams..." he started.

Snape looked at him, rather unimpressed with Draco's inability to be composed. The ability to reserve emotions was seemingly innate in the aristocratic pureblood elite. Showing self-control was a hallmark of the cultured individual. Draco's appearance was in shambles and any composure he had maintained to save face in front of the Order had completely deteriorated. Snape noted his disheveled appearance. His hair was sticking up at every angle, his face showed obvious signs of exhaustion, and he was severely irritated to say the least.

"But I can't tell they're dreams when I'm in them. It's only when I wake up that I realize I've been asleep. They're so real, Severus. I can feel them, I can taste and smell them. Sometimes I think I'm beginning to lose my grip on what's real and what's a dream."

"Are they nightmares?"

Perhaps the stress of defecting from his family and the only life he'd ever known was finally catching up with him.

"No, just dreams of miserable, everyday life in this house."

Snape frowned. "I hardly see a problem, Draco."

"The things that happen in my dreams...what I see...actually happens, Severus. I wake up and everything repeats itself."

"Are you telling me that you're predicting events before they occur? That you're seeing the future?"

Draco scoffed rudely. "It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that. I'm seeing absolute rubbish! The other day I dreamt Granger was reading. Hardly a prediction of the future. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the title of the book. She was reading the exact same book, the exact same pages even. Then she asked the same thing, 'where could Helga Hufflepuff's cup possibly be?'"

"Hermione Granger?"

"Yes, of course. What other Granger do you know?" he asked.

"Did you tell her where the cup is?"

Draco looked at him. "No."

"May I ask why not?"

"Because she doesn't need to know. If I tell her she'll be in one of her miserable moods, so upset that she can't be off saving the world. Only Potter and Weasley need to know. They're actually in a position to do something about it...if they can manage to get inside Gringotts undetected. I can't imagine how they'll pull that off but one can only hope."

"It might be better if you were to include Ms. Granger in this endeavor. They have one chance I'd rather not see it squandered due to their incompetence."

"I'd rather not talk about this right now," Draco said.

Snape nodded, noting his willingness to move off this discussion.

"Is there anything else peculiar about these dreams?"

"It's Granger. She's in every single dream, every one of them. No amount of Dreamless Sleep will prevent them from happening. I stave off sleep for as long as I can but the moment I close my eyes she's always there, always talking or falling or breaking something or reading or cleaning _without her wand_ or brushing her damn hair over her shoulder."

"Why don't you sit down, Draco," Snape said.

As he spoke his gestures become more enigmatic and his voice escalate in volume, taking on a wild, panicked tone. He was always aware of a certain animosity between them but he didn't realize how she affected him.

"Do something, Severus," Draco said, desperate now, turning toward the older wizard. "Just make it stop."

"How long has this been happening?" Snape asked.

Snape had a working theory but there was no precedent or proof to support it. It was simply a hunch. There was no guarantee that knowing more about Draco's symptoms would help in curing him of his peculiar ailment. The unconscious was a wild, unconstructed and unintelligible space, even for a muggle. For the witch or wizard it was an untapped source of desire and power inextricably linked with one's magic. It was an abyss, the indefinite unknown.

"Two weeks, maybe," he said. "After the day at the manor."

Snape said nothing in response to this.

"What's wrong with me?" Draco asked.

* * *

"We have a problem," Snape said, walking briskly into the small circular room.

A small group was sitting in mismatched chairs around an old, worn kitchen table. Everyone looked up as he entered. As soon as he had left Draco he called for a meeting. It had to be somewhere other than Grimmauld Place, though. They couldn't run the risk of being overheard. There was far too much going on in that house as it was. So instead a few members of the Order gathered around the Weasley's kitchen table, waiting anxiously for what they feared would be bad news.

"What's wrong?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Has Draco arrived yet?" Snape asked, looking around the crowded room.

Fred and George groaned in unison.

"You invited him here?" George asked.

"Mind yourselves," Mrs. Weasley hissed.

"Why exactly does he have to be here?" Fred asked.

"I'm assuming it has something to do with me," Draco said, walking briskly into the room and pulling the hood of his cloak off.

"What makes you say that?" Remus asked.

"Hermione. Lately she's noticed some irrational behaviour. She's concerned so she came to me about it," Draco said. "I can only assume that's why I'm here."

"I thought you were supposed to be locked in the attic," Fred said.

"If you don't stifle yourself I'll have you locked in the attic," Draco said.

"What sort of irrational behaviour?" McGonagall asked.

"Insomnia, irritability, mood swings and outbursts, loss of appetite," Snape said.

"So..." Tonks started. "What does all of that mean?"

Everyone looked to Snape for an explanation.

"It seems Draco is remembering things from the future."

"I'm sorry...he's _what_?" Tonks asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Are you sure he doesn't just have the flu?" George asked.

Mrs. Weasley smacked him upside the head and hushed him.

"No," Draco said, shaking his head. "That's not possible."

"I assure you, it is. He's dreaming of memories that belong to you. He thinks he's seeing the future and he is, small glimpses of it. It's his future but it's also your past."

"How can this be happening?" Remus asked.

"I think the transference is happening as a result of their proximity to one another," Snape said.

"So their timelines are overlapping," Kingsley clarified.

"In a manner of speaking," Snape said.

"Does he know about you?" McGonagall asked, looking at Draco with a stern but concerned expression.

"No," Draco said.

Everyone visibly relaxed but they were far from out of the woods yet.

"This is a damned nightmare," Mad-Eye grumbled. "I knew we never should've left you in that house. Should've put you somewhere far away."

"You think this is my fault?" Draco asked, noting the irate wizard's incriminating stare. "I didn't intend for this to happen. I didn't even know it would!"

"No one's saying you did," Tonks said, trying to keep the tentative peace.

"We are," Fred said, gesturing between himself and his brother. "I blame him entirely."

"Could you _please_ not make this more difficult than it has to be?" Mr. Weasley asked, glaring at his sons.

"What is he dreaming about?" Remus asked.

"It's Granger," Snape said.

"He's dreaming about Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her forehead wrinkling as her eyes widened in surprise.

Everyone turned to look at Draco. He wasn't nearly as surprised as everyone else. He couldn't predict this was going to happen, no one could. Everyone expected answers he didn't have. He had no desire to divulge his most private memories and thoughts but they all shared similar looks of shock, disbelief, and expectation. They could barely wrap their head around the fact that his younger self was remembering his past. There was no way they would believe why Hermione was the subject of those memories.

"Is there something you want to tell us, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall said.

* * *

In the evening no one showed up for dinner. She was suspicious now. Not a single night had passed in the past few months where no one stopped by for a spot of dinner. The only person to stop by that day was Snape and he didn't even want to speak to her, and now this. Draco stayed in the study after Snape left and he showed no signs of leaving so Hermione retired to her room. She turned on the lamp on the bedside table and sat in bed reading an obscure text on Horcruxes she'd gotten from Madame Pince. Now that she had identified all the objects which contained pieces of Voldemort's soul all she had to do was figure out how to destroy each one. That was the funny thing about information on Horcruxes. There was plenty of books that told her what they were. There were none that told her how they were made and there certainly weren't any that told her how to destroy one once it had been made. Really all she had to go on was past experiences. Harry had destroyed one with a basilisk fang and Dumbledore had used the sword of Gryffindor. Those were one in the same, though. The sword had assumed the traits of basilisk venom. Hermione was certain there had to be another way, a potion or a bit of dark magic maybe.

Draco hesitated at the closed door. He was a masochist, a glutton for punishment. It was the only explanation. Why else would he be standing outside Hermione's room? With a defeated sigh he rapped sharply on the door. Hermione jumped and the book toppled out of her hands.

"Uh...come in," she said.

Draco opened the door. She pulled the sheets up to her chest and eyed him warily.

"Draco," she said, surprised.

"Where you expecting someone else?" he asked.

He saw her jaw set from where he stood.

"No," she said. "I'm just surprised. Do you need something?"

He shifted uncomfortably.

"I came up here to apologize," he said.

"Well?"

Draco glared at her. Clearly it wasn't enough to make his intention known. She was going to make him say it and she was going to enjoy it. He cleared his throat and tried to keep the tone of his voice friendly. Instead it came off as forced and curt.

"Hermione," he said. "I'm sorry I was so short tempered with you this morning. I'd also like to apologize for speaking out of turn. It was unkind of me."

She contemplated whether or not this would suffice. "Thank you," she said.

He noticed the book on the floor.

"What are you reading?" he asked, making his way over to the old, leather-bound volume.

"A book Madam Pince loaned me. Finding Horcruxes is a nightmare in and of itself, but we've been lucky so far when it's come to destroying them."

Draco flipped through the pages absently, sitting on the edge of the bedside table.

"I can tell you where Helga Hufflepuff's cup is," he said.

"What?" she asked. "You've known this whole time, haven't you?"

"Yes," he said, meeting her unforgiving glare.

"I can't believe you," she snapped.

"I wasn't going to tell you," he said.

"Just stop," she interrupted. "You're just making it worse for yourself."

"But I'm making amends."

He handed her the book and she looked at him with a wary expression. She had more than enough reasons to doubt his sincerity, but it was difficult to be angry with him at the time of night. The artificial light from the lamp created an unflattering backlight that made the dark circles under his eyes even more severe. He looked like he meant it but he also looked too exhausted to lie or to play games with her. Soon she would fall into a restful sleep and he would be fighting to stay awake.

"I was going to tell Potter and Weasley. I didn't want to tell you, though. I figured it would only upset you because you couldn't be out there with them."

"I'm the Secret Keeper not a prisoner," she said. "I'm fully capable of leaving Grimmauld Place."

"Not this time," he said.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"You're not going with them. The Horcrux is in Bellatrix's vault at Gringott's."

"I appreciate your concern but I have to go with Harry and Ron. They need my help."

"Listen to me, Granger. It's _Bellatrix's_ vault. Not only is she from an old purelood family, which guarantees her some of the most secure vaults at Gringott's, but she's placed so many precautionary measures on her vault there's no way to get the Horcrux out."

"All the more reason I have to go."

"Don't go."

Hermione couldn't keep up with his rapid mood swings. This morning he'd been volatile and ill-tempered but now he was looking at her with such sincerity and concern she could almost forget his earlier transgressions. How could these two dissimilar temperaments belong to the same person? It was as if two entirely different people had been violently yoked together. She didn't say anything because there was no need to. He could see the resolve in her eyes. This was why he didn't want to tell her but it was also the reason he couldn't lie. She could never forgive him if she found out he purposefully cut her out of the plan, if he went straight to Potter and Weasley. The thought of deceiving her was becoming more and more uncomfortable to him.

"Is there anything I can say that will change your mind?" he asked. "Anything at all."

"No," she said. "There isn't."

Her bright eyes looked almost hazel in the light. She looked so earnest and so sincere in that moment it was disarming. That was it, then. There was nothing he could say. He couldn't understand why he didn't want her to go. There simply were no words. It was a feeling, a sense of foreboding that he couldn't make sense of. All he could do was show her. He leaned forward and pressed his lips firmly to hers. The soft line of her jaw fit perfectly in his hands when he cradled her face, brushing his thumbs gently along her cheekbones. Her skin was warm and soft. He could feel her pulse beating erratically under his fingertips. When he closed his eyes this time the anxiety that took hold was entirely different from the uneasiness that enveloped him before sleep.

Hermione froze. She didn't move and for a moment—the longest seconds of his life—he thought he'd ruined everything. She let go of the book in her lap and tentatively rested her hands on his chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his jumper. He pulled back slightly, their lips barely touching. He could feel her unsteady breath on his face. He was still waiting for her to run away, to change her mind, but she didn't. Hermione closed the minute distance between them and pressed a light kiss against his lips. That was all the encouragement he needed.

He parted her lips and she let slip a quiet sigh. Though she'd never imagined what it would been like, she was surprised at how gentle he was. Yet she could feel the urgency of his movements; his firm grip, the pressure of his lips against hers, his heavy breathing. He pressed his tongue against hers and Hermione found herself gripping his jumper tightly. The book in her lap toppled off the bed and onto the hardwood floor. The dull thud was incredibly loud in the silent room. Hermione started and Draco pulled away. His light eyes looked darker than they normally were. She could see his chest rising and falling quickly.

"I should go," he said.

Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. What had she just done? Her hand went to her swollen lips as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

**TO BE CONTINUED **


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Immutable

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I know it's been a while but I have been dealing with the dreaded LSAT which I'm scheduled to write alarmingly soon. I'm convinced LSAC are sadists because they have strategically designed a test which makes you feel like a total idiot during and shortly after writing it, and damages any self-confidence that is tied up in your intellectual abilities.

So not only do I feel like a brain dead zombie (on that note: did you read about the zombie apocalypse that has begun in Miami?), but this chapter was mentally and emotionally draining. There are several angsty scenes, all of which I was worried were too cliche. If they were too cliche they would run the risk of making you laugh, thus detracting from the ambiance of the whole chapter which is both depressing and deserving of a "hallelujah"! It was a difficult chapter for me to write. I don't even think it's quite finished. The ending seems somewhat lackluster to me but I couldn't think of another way to end it without making this chapter another 3,000 words longer!

I hope you enjoy it!

Read and review!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**  
**IMMUTABLE**

"How much has to be explored and discarded before reaching the naked flesh of feeling."  
_Claude Debussy_

"Ah, there you are."

He found Draco in the study, seated at the desk with his feet propped up on a stack of books. There seemed to be no improvement from the last time Remus had visited. Draco's face was as tired and gaunt, if not worse. The dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises. His lips were drawn in a tight line. His clothes were equally fatigued. Everything was horribly wrinkled.

Half of his shirt was untucked and he'd missed a button while doing it up. His black leather shoes were kicked under the desk, his left sock had a hole in the heel, and his hair was unbrushed. Remus had not known Draco to neglect his appearance but he'd clearly abandoned any and all attempts to mask his peculiar ailment.

He was staring at the ceiling as though there were something terribly interesting there. Remus briefly glanced up. There were cracks in the ceiling and the paint was chipped but that was all that was there. Draco didn't look away when Remus entered the room. He didn't acknowledge when Remus spoke either.

"This is for you," Remus said, placing a small glass vial on the desk.

Draco looked at the pearly liquid. The way it seemed to swirl, nearly translucent and weightless, in its glass container looked vaguely familiar. It was enough to spark his interest but he continued to feign boredom.

"Yet another solution," Draco said.

"It's a potion Serverus created that's meant to suppress your dreams."

"Suppress them," he said, skeptical. He hadn't had a moments peace in weeks. The little rest he managed was always interrupted by an onslaught of prophetic, unwanted images. "How?"

"I'm not entirely sure. As far as I know it acts like a Pensive. It contains your dreams and keeps them separate from your memories. Although you will undoubtedly continue to have these dreams you won't remember them. I'm sorry Severus couldn't be here to explain this to you. It seems he cannot get away without raising suspicion."

"Forgive me if I'm less than enthusiastic but you lot have botched every single attempt to...fix me. Now you want to play with my memories? I don't think so."

"Draco," Remus said. "You can't continue like this. You need rest. The least you can do is try it."

"I'm fine," he said, glaring at the older wizard in front of him.

Remus Lupin prided himself on being a patient and tolerant man, but Draco was threatening his last nerve.

"You are not fine," he said, his voice loud and clear. "Anyone can see that. If this doesn't work we can try something else."

"We?" Draco asked, planting his feet on the carpeted floor and sitting up straight in his chair. "There is no 'us'. Last time I checked I was the one being hounded by Granger in my bloody dreams."

"I only meant that we are all trying to help you, Draco. The Order has your best interests at—"

"I'm sure they do," Draco snapped. "And I'm sure you'll all take turns caring for me when my mind falls apart and I'm a bloody invalid. I'd be better off letting dear aunt Bella torture me to insanity. At least it would be over quickly."

"Are you finished?" Hermione asked.

Draco looked past Remus, his jaw setting in a hard line. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.

"Self-pity it not very becoming, Malfoy," she said.

"I trust you'll try to talk some sense into him," Remus said, looking back at Draco as he headed toward the stairs.

"She can try," Draco said.

Remus bade them farewell and made his way downstairs. When the front door closed behind him Draco eased back in his chair. He put his feed back up on the desk and watched her scowl as his socked feet rested gently on her precious leather-bound volumes.

"Why are you being so difficult?"

Draco laughed. It was cold and hollow, devoid of any humor.

"A bit like the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? Every time I walk into the room you drop whatever it is you're doing and run off. You haven't spoken to me in days and you're accusing me of being difficult? This house is little more than a barren wasteland but it's you whose finally made it impossible to live in."

"Just drink the potion," she said.

"Not until we clear some things up, Granger."

"Fine," she said, sitting down on the nearest sofa and looking and him expectantly.

"You have some explaining to do," he continued.

"I don't need to explain anything. You're the one who kissed me." she said.

"I did," he said, nodding his head.

She wasn't going to get an argument there. He wasn't denying it, he wasn't ashamed of it. Most of the time she was intolerable and defensive but it was worth the few moments of silence. When she actually shut her mouth for more than five minutes he could appreciate her thick, curly hair, her smooth skin and the smattering of freckles under her eyes and on the bridge of her nose. Here eyelashes were pretty, too. Especially when she looked up from reading with her head down. She didn't move her head, but her eyes flicked upwards and she looked at him through those thick lashes. He'd suffer through her annoying chatter if only for those brief glimpses through hooded eyes.

"Did I offend you somehow?" he asked. "Or upset you?"

She didn't say anything.

"You're angry with me," he ventured.

"I'm not angry," she said.

"I can think of no other reason why you'd be avoiding me."

"Just tell me why you did it."

"That's what you're so bothered about?" he asked. "I thought it was quite obvious why...I don't now how I can make it any clearer."

"Clarity and sincerity are not your strong suits. You always have some ulterior motive."

"Are you paranoid or do you really think so little of yourself?"

"It's you I think little of. Why else would I ask?"

"Maybe you're trying to convince yourself you didn't enjoy it."

"I can assure you, I didn't."

"I believe the old adage goes, actions speak louder than words."

"Let me be clear," she said. "That was a one time aberration, a complete and total lapse of judgement on my part. Alright?"

"Fine."

"Fine," she said. "Now answer the question."

"I have to spell it out for you then? I wanted you," he said slowly, annunciating each word.

She shifted uncomfortably. If he still had a fortune to bet with, he would've bet it all on the fact that she was not used to receiving such attention from the opposite sex. She clearly didn't like being the centre of their attention, nor could she make sense of their romantic gestures.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. If I had any feelings at all you effectively quelled those with your tactlessness. As you've incessantly pointed out again and again, I couldn't possibly have feelings for a straight-laced prude. My motivations were purely physical so you can rule out any diabolical plans to ruin the Order by getting into your knickers."

His cutting insult didn't have the desired effect. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Hermione's glare turned into an expression of smug pleasure.

"You're being..._defensive_."

"Hardly," he said. "You asked a question and I answered it. Because you didn't like the answer you're not only refusing to accept it but you're veering wildly off track here."

"I hurt you!"

Draco scoffed.

"No, I did," she insisted. "You've never been rejected before, have you?"

"Rejected?" he laughed. "I think you're forgetting something, Granger. You didn't reject me. You kissed me and I know you liked it. Don't even begin to try and tell me otherwise. I think all those years being such a shut in has made you easy, darling. Don't forget, I know what you dream about at night. Letting the person you hate most in the world touch you like that? You're screwed up enough for the both of us already, you don't need to go around fabricating such ridiculous ideas."

That wiped her smile off her face. Hermione Granger was two sides of the same coin and just like that, she flipped. This side of the coin featured a particularly prideful Medusa that, once it reared its ugly head, could obliterate a man...or at least turn him to stone and leave him utterly defenseless.

"See?" she hissed, glaring at him. "It's always a game to you. There's always a status quo. You always need to have the upper hand. You manipulate and control people. That's why I'm avoiding you. That's why I know that kiss was a mistake. You can't be honest or just say what you mean."

"No," he snapped. "You just can't accept that I'm right about you. I told you, I want you, that's why I kissed you. It's that easy. Whatever nonsense is going on in your head is what you're avoiding and what you won't deal with. Don't put that on me."

"Just because you're stuck here with me it doesn't mean you know who I am."

"Oh, but I do. Everyone looks at you and thinks they have you figured out. Cool, calm and collected Hermione Granger, always has her wits about her. But you're a complete disaster and I'm the only one that sees that."

"As lovely as this conversation is, I think I've had enough for one night."

He wasn't just letting her leave thinking she had the last word. She had a particularly nasty habit of avoiding all her problems by running away from them but he wasn't having it tonight. She was going to look at him and listen to him whether she wanted to or not. This was something she couldn't run away from, not if they were going to be living in the same house for the unforeseeable future. This nonsense was going to be resolved.

"Don't you want me to drink the potion?" he asked.

She stopped and turned, squaring her shoulders to him with a skeptical expression.

"No," she said simply.

"No?"

"No," she repeated.

"Bullocks," he said. "You think I'll do exactly what you don't want me to and drink the ruddy potion."

"It's called reverse psychology," she said.

"Regardless, it won't work. How dense do you think I am?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

"I will not drink that potion. They'll have to find another way."

"Why are you being so selfish?" she shouted. "Just drink the damn potion!"

He laughed but it was bitter and humourless.

"I'm being selfish?"

"Yes!"

"Do you know what I dream about?"

She hadn't been expecting that. His question didn't quite stop her in her tracks, she was still fuming, but it disarmed her slightly.

"No."

"Of course not. You stomp around and make demands but you don't know anything," he said.

"I know that you've become almost impossible to live with and that's more than enough reason for me. You're surly and even more short-tempered than usual."

"Have you considered that there's a reason I'm doing this?"

"Other than to be a royal pain in my ass?"

"I'm doing it to protect you!"

He was up from his seat now, standing behind the desk. She could see a vein in his neck protruding as he shouted. His posture was very straight and tense. Once those words were there, sitting in the room with them, the cruel slur she had ready to hurl at him dissolved in her mouth.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

The silence was invasive now that their shouting match had ended.

"No one told you what I dream about, did they?"

"No," she said. "They've been very quiet about the whole thing."

He was surprised no one had told her.

"The way you've been acting though...finishing my sentences, stopping things before they even happen. You're seeing things before they happen...aren't you?"

He nodded. Of course she'd managed to figure that much out. He didn't know why he doubted she would.

"That's part of it," he said.

"What's the other part?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

"Let me rephrase. It's better if you didn't know."

"You sound just like him!" she said.

"Like who?"

Hermione froze.

"No one."

He didn't press her on the subject. It was something she could silently be greateful for. Lying was not her forte and she didn't know what she would've told him. Merlin forbid she said more than that. She nearly slipped up and told Draco about their other house guest living a floor above him. He sounded just like his future self, though, almost repeating verbatim what he told her time and time again. Next the Draco in front of her would tell her it was for her own good or for her protection or some rubbish like that. These brief moments of their striking similarity were like brief glimpses into the future, the lost years between the younger and older versions of himself. She was seeing him change and grow and it was something entirely new for her.

"Just tell me," she sighed.

He held her gaze. He'd been weighing his options since he'd told Snape. Why shouldn't she know? What gave him the right to keep such personal information from her? He didn't want any of it. If he could he'd pass it all over to her and let her deal with it but that wasn't the case. He was stuck with these unwanted thoughts. If he was slowly going to lose his mind, the least he could do was give her some peace of mind. Perhaps she could use some of the knowledge to her advantage. Merlin knew it wasn't doing him any good. All it did was confuse him.

"Please," she said quietly.

"It's you. My dreams are about you."

Hermione sat back down slowly, letting the information sink in.

"Some of them are quite...intimate."

"You're seeing the future and in that future we're..."

She couldn't put the thought into words. It sounded ludicrous, blasphemous even, and saying it would put more reality to it than she wanted. So she gestured between the two of them, her eyes wide. He didn't say anything but his silence confirmed everything she didn't want to believe.

"Oh my God," she breathed, covered her face with her hands. "And you're...seeing all of it."

"I didn't tell anyone about those," he said as though that were some small compensation.

He couldn't tell whether it was out of embarrassment or horror that she covered her face. He felt a little twinge in the pit of his stomach. His pride began overcompensating for her reaction, especially because he couldn't see her face to truly gage her reaction. He was attractive, he reassured himself, and she should've been counting her lucky stars that his demented future self would want to be with her. Now, as in every other capacity, Hermione Granger proved herself to be unlike any other girl he'd ever met. Naturally she would find the thought terrible. She had to be different and infuriatingly so.

"Now that you know, it doesn't have to happen at all," he said. "Alright?"

She dropped her hands and looked at him. For the first time in a long time she began to doubt her judgement. It felt like missing the last step when going down the stairs. The sudden sensation of falling was minute and fleeting and her stomach felt like it was turning upside down. She found her footing, though, and tried to put this into perspective. This younger Draco had, in more ways than one, surpassed his older self. She didn't trust him but in this strange turn of events, he trusted her enough to tell her about her own fate. He gave her the choice and in that he proved himself to be a far better friend, despite their animosity, than his older self ever claimed to be to her. The older Draco kept his knowledge of future events from her and put the burden solely on himself. She didn't know why but she was beginning to doubt if the reason would be enough to justify his paranoia and his mistrust of her. He had supposedly known her for years, he'd intimated many times over that they trusted one another but she felt her world tilting. Was the Draco sitting in front of her really the problem or was she putting her suspicion and blame on him at the expense of trusting, blindly and whole-heartedly, the other Draco?

"But it can't all be real. Not the part about us. It just...can't."

"Why not?" he asked.

She looked taken aback.

"Believe me, it's not pride. I want to know why you find the idea so offensive."

"I don't find it offensive," she said.

"Then what? Am I such a terrible person that you couldn't possibly imagine—"

"I didn't know if what I felt for you was real. I didn't want my loneliness to motivate my actions," she said. "It wouldn't have been fair to either of us."

He was still standing at the desk but she could see his body relax slightly and his glare subside.

"That's why I avoided you," she clarified.

Surprise was hardly an expression that graced Draco's face often but he couldn't help the slight raise of his eyebrows and the softening of his hard expression. The silence unnerved her and she continued on in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner as if telling him would justify her actions and quell the anxious voice in the back of her mind.

"No one likes to admit they're wrong, especially when it's the person you're supposed to hate that you're losing to. Is it so wrong for me not to want you to know me better than I know myself?"

He shook his head.

"No," he said. "There's nothing wrong with that."

She relaxed slightly. In that jumbled mess of a confession he was able to make out what she was saying.

"So, when you dream," she started, clearing her throat lightly. "What happens? In your dreams about us, I mean."

"The most monotonous and routine thing you could possibly imagine. Sitting, reading, talking about what you've read, eating breakfast."

"What about the other dreams? The ones...not about breakfast."

"Granger," he said, shaking his head.

"Do we..."

"Stop it," he said. "It's embarrassing."

"You? You're embarrassed?" she asked, disbelieving.

"No. It would be embarrassing for _you_," he said. "We are not talking about this."

"You were all for it a moment ago when you were trying to make me feel uncomfortable. So have at it then, I want to know."

"I don't think it's really...appropriate."

"When has propriety ever been a concern for you?"

He was fighting a losing battle and he knew it.

"I don't kiss and tell," he said.

"It's me you're kissing!" she said.

"Do you want me to drink the potion?" he asked abruptly. "I will. If you want me to."

"You're just saying that now to avoid this conversation."

"Yes," he said, clenching his jaw. "I am. I don't want to talk about this with you."

"Because you're embarrassed?" she tried again.

"I'm not embarrassed! It's just...private, alright?"

"You're infuriating," she hissed.

"I'm infuriating? I am?" he asked. "Are you mentally deficient, Granger? No? Then act like the sensible pain in the arse you normally are. Even you can figure out what the other dreams involve."

"I can't understand why I would ever do something like that with you of all people."

"Yes, as you so clearly articulated earlier."

"You're like a child! We can't even have a decent conversation without it turning into a row."

"And that's my fault? You can't even say the word sex without your face lighting up like a bloody Christmas tree and you accuse me of being childish? If you would act your age then maybe—"

"Maybe what?" she asked.

"Maybe you wouldn't have been making excuses."

"Making excuses for what?"

"Why you were avoiding me."

"I already told you."

"Yes, and you're a terrible liar. You blink like your body is physically rejecting the lie."

Hermione clenched her jaw. Was there anyone who didn't pick up on this right away or was it just the two Dracos who were uncomfortably perceptive?

"Why don't we try this a second time," he said.

"You seem to have all the answers," she said. "Why don't you tell me."

"Alright," he said, getting to his feet and walking over to where she sat on the sofa. She scooted closer to the overstuffed arm as he took the vacant spot beside her. "You liked it when I kissed you but you don't like me on a personal level. Therein lies the problem. I'm a bad person and I've done bad things. I go out of my way to give you a hard time. What's there to like?"

She looked at him with an inscrutable expression.

"It's just wrong to feel any inkling of pleasure when someone you positively loathe is the one who put it there in the first place, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "Loathsome."

His bright eyes held her gaze intently and he leaned toward her.

"We can't have that, can we?"

He was so close now she could feel his breath on her face. All she could hear was her heartbeat and shallow breathing. She was beginning to question whether or not it would be so terrible if he kissed her again. Anyone with eyes could see he was handsome. His square jaw and his broad shoulders made him seem so much larger and virile than she would've thought possible. It wasn't that he was weak by any stretch of the imagination, but he normally relied on his intelligence to carry him in any situation. It wasn't often he emanated brute strength. He towered over her in a way that reminded her of Malfoy Manor, the way he sunk his fist into Dolohov's face or the way he dragged her out of the house like she weighed nothing more than a rag doll. She felt vulnerable in a way that didn't engender fear but in a way that excited her.

But the problem wasn't physical. Even he had been able to pick up on that. Hermione couldn't wrap her head around having those feelings for someone that stood for so many things she was against. She wasn't sure that physical attraction was enough for her. There had to be something more. She was caving quickly on that principle, though. She wasn't about to stop him.

"No," she breathed, his nose brushing hers lightly.

Her eyes closed for a fraction of a second and she felt his warmth disappear.

"I should go," he said, echoing his last hurried departure from the previous night.

Hermione opened her eyes and composed herself quickly, getting to her feet and straightening her jumper as he headed toward the stairs.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I showed you what you want."

"I don't..._want_ you," she said quietly.

"Of course you don't," he sighed. "Goodnight, Granger."

* * *

Hermione did everything she could to put her thoughts of Draco out of her mind. She had enough to deal with as it was. Juggling two Dracos had not gotten easier and she hadn't made any progress with her search for the remaining Horcruxes. She was devoting most of time to figuring out a way to get Hufflepuff's cup out of Bellatrix's vault. Without Harry and Ron the plan wasn't coming together as she'd hoped, though.

"We could convince a goblin to help," Tonks said.

Hermione looked at her skeptically.

"How?" she asked.

"Pay him?"

"A goblin isn't going to accept payment to steal," Bill said.

"Why not?" Tonks asked.

"Theft is a serious offense. There's a reason they don't believe witches and wizards should be trusted with their own wealth. Bribing them will only make matters worse," he said.

"It was a lovely idea, though," Mrs. Weasley said.

"How many other ways are there to get the cup out of Lestrange's vault?" Tonks asked.

"Harry and Ron have the sword," Hermione said.

"What?" Tonks asked.

"Harry and Ron have the sword of Gryffindor," Hermione repeated. "A goblin-made sword."

She looked pointedly at Bill. Goblin-made. That was it.

"That could be a bargaining chip," he said. "Goblins believe that the rightful owner of any object is the one who made it, not the one who bought it. As far as they're concerned, it's belongs to them. If we were to return it, then..."

"But so far it's the only thing they have for destroying Horcruxes," Tonks said.

"It's not the only way to destroy a Horcrux," Draco said, looking up from his paper.

He'd been unusually quiet during their discussion and for the better part of the evening. Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Tonks had stopped by for dinner. It was a welcome distraction on Hermione's part. With the cold weather bearing down on them and the unbearable tension in the house, the company made Grimmauld Place feel warmer.

"Right, well unless you have a Basilisk fang lying about then Tonks is right. The sword is all we have," Hermione said.

Tonks and Bill exchanged a worried glance. Hermione had been short with Draco all evening. Draco had managed to get under her skin and it was killing her that he was right. She didn't want to want him, but she did and sooner or later she was going to have to come to terms with it. He'd already acknowledged his feelings for her. They were unwelcome and bothersome, but he didn't want to fight anymore. There was no point. He'd already conceded defeat. He defected from his family and friends and openly associated himself with Potter, enemy number one, and his ragtag group of saints. Granger was one thing he didn't want to have to deny, not when his future was so plainly spelt out for him.

"And you were just about to suggest handing it over to the goblins," he said.

"Do you have a better idea?" she asked.

"Fiendfyre," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous. No one would be able to control it long enough to destroy the Horcrux."

"For argument's sake, let's say we have the sword," Bill said. "What kind of security are we looking at?"

"The vault itself is guarded by a dragon. If you can get past that you need a goblin to open the door. Everything inside the vault is protected by Geminio and Flagrante curses. Try to steal something and you'll be crushed to death before you can make it out the door," Draco said.

"What about the cup itself?" Tonks asked.

"There aren't any curses or protective spells on it."

"That you're aware of," Hermione said.

The sheer difficulty of the task at hand was beginning to sink in. They were going to have to break into a vault deep beneath one of the most secure wizarding buildings in the country, a vault that belonged to a very old, very dark pureblood family. The whistling of the kettle interrupted everyone's somber thoughts. Mrs. Weasley hurried about, setting out things for tea and clearing away pots, pans, and dinner plates.

"Have you considered how you're going to get down into the vault yet?" Bill asked.

"No," Hermione said.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Tonks said.

"I hope so," Hermione said. "Have you heard from Ron?"

Hermione looked from Bill who shook his head to Mrs. Weasley whose smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Tonks took careful notice of Draco. Only at the mention of Ron's name did he look up from his paper and fix his gaze on Hermione. He watched her carefully for a brief moment as though trying to infer or confirm something from her question.

"He sends letters," Mrs. Weasley said. "Short ones, though. Just to let me know everything is alright."

Hermione nodded. His letters to her were not much different. They were less personal, if that was possible. Neither he nor Harry tried to comfort her. Space was precious in the few obscure lines they sent and all the information was sent as anonymously as possible. None of them used the same owl too often.

"I'll need to see them. We need to discuss this in more detail. What I can tell them by owl is hardly enough to come up with a plan and it's only fair they have an equal say in the matter. If this plan is going to go off without a hitch all three of us need to be on the same page."

"Three of you?" Draco asked.

"I suppose you want to come along?" Hermione asked, turning to him with a hardened glare.

"So you're going?" he asked.

"Harry and Ron need my help."

"We talked about this, Granger," he said.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, glancing at the curious faces looking to her for an answer. He had some nerve, bringing this up in front of the Order.

"No. You talked, I listened. I never said I wouldn't go," she said.

A long silence settled about the room and the two fell into a stalemate.

"Fine," Draco said, picking up his paper and casually giving the page in front of him a once over.

"That's it?" she asked, wary of his suddenly compliant and nonchalant demeanor. "You're not going to fight me on this?"

"No need," he said. "Because none of you are going without me."

"You can't just tag along," she insisted.

"And why not?"

"You can't stand Harry or Ron and you barely get on with me. You'll just cause problems."

"If it weren't for me then you wouldn't know where the cup was."

"I would've figured it out."

"Had you figured it out, you wouldn't have known how to get into the vault."

"'_Had_ I figured it—'"

"Hermione," Tonks said, effectively cutting the younger witch off and eyeing the two carefully. "We should count our lucky stars that Draco's been able to tell us that much."

"Just so the valuable information I've provided you with doesn't go to waste, the crux of that little plan you're already putting together should be Polyjuice Potion," Draco said with a pointed look in Hermione's direction.

"That's not a bad idea," Bill said. "Goblins are highly intelligent but they don't possess any innate ability to see past a potion that alters appearances."

"You're familiar with the Polyjuice Potion, aren't you?" Draco asked, looking to Hermione.

Hermione glared. Of course he would jump at any chance to add insult to injury. He had already made it clear that this entire operation hinged on the extensive information he could provide. He was a valuable asset, more so than Hermione would've liked to admit. Then he had to go and bring up an embarrassing childhood memory. How wonderfully mature, she thought bitterly.

"Alright," Tonks said, sensing they were treading dangerous waters now. "I think I should be off."

"What about tea?" Hermione asked, tearing her eyes away from Draco. She only realized then how negligent she'd been with her friends. This was supposed to be a pleasant dinner, not an Order meeting. It certainly was not meant to be an opportunity to bicker with Draco.

"There will be plenty of time for tea another day," Mrs. Weasley said.

"You're not going too?" Hermione asked.

"It is getting late," she said, glancing at the clock. It only read quarter to eight. "And we've left Fred and George home alone for far too long now. Merlin knows what kind of trouble they've cooked up."

"Good night, Hermione," Bill said. "Draco."

The young blonde nodded his head politely but said nothing in return. Hermione got to her feet and followed them into the hall.

"Hermione, dear. There's a loaf of bread sitting by the stove. The dough is rising, so all that's left is to pop it in the oven for a bit. I'll be sure to come by soon," Mrs. Weasley said as she put on her jacket.

"Just to make sure you two haven't killed each other," Tonks grinned.

"Take care, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said, nudging Tonks gently.

Mrs. Weasley lamented the bitter cold as she walked out onto the step with her son. Once they were out of sight, presumably across the street, Hermione heard two faint pops and they were gone.

"You don't have to go," Hermione said.

"I don't have to but I should," Tonks said. "Remus will be waiting and he gets so worried, especially nowadays."

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked, glancing down at her stomach. She was just beginning to show but her heavy jumper made it nearly impossible to tell.

"Good," Tonks smiled, touching her stomach absently. "We're both good."

"I'm glad. For you and Remus," Hermione said. "You both deserve to be happy."

"You do too, Hermione," Tonks said. "You don't always have to put everyone first, you know. You should give yourself a break."

Hermione looked at her, confused.

"But I am," she said. "Happy, I mean."

Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't entirely true. There were a great number of things she wasn't happy about. She couldn't bear to think about her parents and it didn't matter that she'd done what she had in order to protect them, the fact that she had done it at all was enough to cause a deep-rooted melancholia. The way things had turned out with Harry and Ron, the terrible things she'd heard about Hogwarts, its corridors and class rooms reduced to spaces of listlessness and fear, and all the horrendous news that came to her through the Order about the rest of the wizarding world, all of these compounded the hurt and anger she carefully bottled up and hid away. Hermione wasn't fooling anyone, though. She hadn't convinced Draco and she certainly wasn't convincing Tonks. There was little else to say or do because it couldn't be helped. Anyone that said they didn't feel the same was either a fool or a liar.

Tonks smiled lightly and nodded. "Good night," she said, pulling her coat tighter around herself as she stepped out into the night. "Oh, and try to get along, why don't you!"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh as Tonks skipped down the stairs with a wave. She waited for the familiar pop before she closed the door. The cold air was strangely comforting. The warmth of the house was stifling in a way that made her feel claustrophobic. The stagnancy of her days had become an itch that she could not scratch, a terrible irritation that could not be sated. She was sure it had something to do with the lack of incident. The Death Eaters had been unusually quiet which was cause enough for concern. Little progress had been made on the Horcrux front which only exacerbated Hermione's restlessness.

* * *

Hermione read and re-read the short message scrawled on the crumpled scrap of parchment. She'd never been happier to see such atrocious penmanship:

_Home for Christmas._  
_—R.W. & H.P._

"Good news?"

Hermione looked up at Draco standing in the doorway.

"Yes," she said. "Harry and Ron will be home for Christmas."

"Home," Draco repeated slowly, pointing at the ground.

"Yes, of course. Where else?"

"Won't this make our situation even more complicated?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Don't. Nothing you can say will ruin my mood."

"I'm not trying to upset you," he said. "I'm pointing out a logistical problem that you clearly haven't considered."

"I can't very well send them an owl and tell them they can't come home because there are two of you living here."

"And why not?" he asked. "Why is it so important that you see them?"

"For one, they're my friends. I worry about them, I miss them. I'd like everyone to be together this Christmas," she said. "And as for another, this house legally belongs to Harry. Sirius left it to him. _You're_ the guest here, both of you, and you would do well to remember that."

"Well, they already know about the other one, so what's one more Malfoy?" he said, grinning.

"That's not funny," Hermione said. "What are you even doing down here? Why aren't you in your room?"

"My other, younger self stepped out," he said. "So I took the opportunity to get some air, stretch my legs a bit. That's not against any of your rules, is it?"

"They're not _my_ rules," she said. "They're common sense and they're for your own good. We can't have you running into...wait, you went out?"

"What, you didn't realize how quiet it was here? No arguing, no doors slamming, no impetuous threats."

"Malfoy," Hermione warned.

"Don't worry," he said. "It's official Order business."

"Where did you go? Why didn't I know about this?"

"I imagine it's because you wouldn't approve."

"Approve of what?" Hermione asked, her indignation at being kept in the dark slowly growing. "_What_ is going on?"

"Some of the Order captured Antonin Dolohov during an attack in muggle London."

"There wasn't a meeting about this."

"No, there wouldn't have been. This is something that needed to be dealt with quickly and quietly. Dolohov is a member of Voldemort's inner circle, he has been since the very beginning. Snape is at Hogwarts managing the Carrows. We're flying blind so the Order wants to extract information from Dolohov before locking him up."

"You don't mean torture," Hermione said, disbelieving.

"If it comes to that, perhaps. Legilimency could very well be enough."

"No one will allow such a thing."

"This is a war, Granger," he said. "There may be a good side and a bad side, but they'll both do terrible things to protect their beliefs."

"Dolohov is vile and disgusting but we can't torture him. We can't or else we'd be no better than the Death Eaters themselves," she insisted.

"Why do you think they sent a Death Eater to do it, then?"

"You are not a Death Eater."

"No? I'm the one person exempt from those moral obligations. So what does that make me?"

* * *

Draco sat on a dusty windowsill in what was once a front room, looking through the broken wooden blinds at the small town below. Snow had already fallen in Hogsmeade. It didn't look picturesque like he remembered from his time at Hogwarts. There were few twinkling lights and few smoke stacks rising from the chimneys of the little cottages. It looked empty and dark. Draco could hear muffled voices from within the house but he couldn't make out what they were saying. When the voices stopped he looked up.

"Veritaserum didn't work," Mad-Eye said, emerging from a room at the back of the dilapidated house.

"He's an Occlumens," Draco said.

"Something of a habit among Death Eaters, is it?"

Draco glared at the batty old wizard in front of him. "It's protection, our only protection. Voldemort roots around in your mind until He finds what you're most afraid of or what you love most in this world and uses that information to ruin you, to drive you to insanity. It's a far more sadistic method of control than the Imperius Curse and one He revels in because it kills two birds with one stone: He gets what he want and He ruins someone in the process. Now, tell me you wouldn't learn Occlumency."

Mad-Eye just pulled a wand from the pocket of his shabby, oversized trench coat and held it out to him.

"I trust I don't need to remind you not to do anything stupid," Mad-Eye said, both his magical eye and his other eye fixed on Draco.

Draco said nothing but took the wand from Mad-Eye and made his way through the ruined rooms of the Shrieking Shack. The wand felt strange in his hand in more ways than one. The wood was rough and gnarled, carved into a crooked and spindly shape. It was darker, too, somehow heavier. Draco's wand possessed an aptitude for Dark Magic but Dolohov's wand, like Bellatrix's, was dark all the way through to the core. It resisted the slightest hint of any selfless inclination or desire to do good. Draco had no intention of keeping Dolohov safe, though. He had every intention of hurting him. That's why he was here, that's why Mad-Eye, who trusted Draco least of all the Order members, came to him.

Draco didn't believe there was such a thing as a former Death Eater. The Dark Mark was for life. He was marked and branded as a murderer for the rest of his days, and his reprehensible behaviour gave no defense against that charge. He was a Death Eater no longer loyal to Voldemort but he was certainly not an Order member willing to lay down his life for them. Draco occupied a liminal position in which he had no moral qualms about killing Dolohov or any number of Death Eaters. It wasn't for the greater good that he wanted them gone, though. It was for selfish reasons, for the sake of self-preservation and pride.

"Should've known you'd turn up, Malfoy."

Draco looked at the pale wizard tied to a rickety chair in the centre of the room. There was an upturned, moth-eaten sofa in the corner with a sheet thrown over it, but there was no other furniture in the room. The ceiling and walls were blackened with water stains, the floor was horribly uneven with decrepit wooden boards curling up like yellowing toe nails that had grown too long. Draco could see where the thick layer of dust on the floor had been disturbed. There'd been a struggle, no doubt to force Dolohov into submission. The room was dank and smelled of mold.

"Couldn't pass up the opportunity to see an old friend."

"You were stupid to come," Dolohov hissed. "Do you know how many Death Eaters and Snatchers are in that village?"

"None that are of any concern to me. They're not looking for you. They're looking for muggleborns or better yet, for Potter. You thought Voldemort would waste time and resources to find you, a Death Eater that was captured by a ragtag bunch of Order members?"

"You don't deserve to speak His name, you filthy blood traitor!"

"I don't think Voldemort values your loyalty as much as you think."

Dolohov shifted violently in the chair, twisting his wrists and ankles roughly against his invisible bindings. The wooden legs scraped loudly on the floor as he writhed in his seat. His twisted face looked more violent with the shadows playing up his manic glare.

"You are disposable," Draco said slowly.

"Like a faithful dog, you are," Dolohov spat. "Doing the dirty work for Mudbloods, half breeds, and the like."

"As opposed to doing the dirty work for a half-blood, whose mother seduced a muggle with a Love Potion?"

Dolohov let out a rough, unsettling laugh.

"I am waiting until the day I get to watch the Dark Lord choke the life from you. You can bet I'll be there."

"Not if I kill you first."

"You can't kill me." Dolohov's rough laugher echoed in the empty room.

"No?" Draco asked, looking around the room. "I don't see anyone here that's going to stop me."

"I wasn't referring to whether or not you're allowed," he spat. "I was referring to your _impotence_. Couldn't off Dumbledore and you could barely do in that Mudblood Cresswell. Pathetic."

Draco pulled Dolohov's wand from his back pocket. As he twirled it between his fingers he could see Dolohov's gaunt face slacken and his eyes harden.

"Perhaps it was because I had no motivation," Draco mused, walking around the room aimlessly. "But for this, I volunteered because I would like nothing more than to kill you with your own wand."

"You don't have the guts," Dolohov sneered.

Draco focussed on his blackest memory in the furthest reaches of his soul, the barren wasteland where every terrible thing he'd ever done was suppressed by guilt. In the same way that the Patronus Charm required the happiest memory the caster could recall, the Cruciatus Curse required a genuine desire to cause another person harm. There could be no issue of conscience, no regret or concern. Without faltering, Draco pointed the crooked wand at Dolohov.

"Crucio."

Dolohov made a strangled noise and Draco could see every muscle in his body straining. His spine looked painfully rigid and the tendons in his neck leaped sporadically under his skin. He watched for a moment before looking away and ending the immense physical torture that Dolohov was undoubtedly feeling. The moment it stopped Draco could here the other wizard sputtering for air.

"You're going to tell me what I want to know."

"You'll never get what you want by torturing me, you're just not as good as you think."

"I've got nothing but time. Let's practice, shall we?"

"But Bellatrix," Dolohov continued, ignoring Draco. "Is truly gifted. She can cast a Cruciatus Curse and it's not just magic, it's art...and those blood traitors, the Longbottoms, well they're her masterpiece. Last I heard they were drooling invalids over at St. Mungo's. Absolutely beautiful. I also heard that she had you on the floor, at her feet, begging and groveling for it to stop. How embarrassing."

Draco set the wand down on the upturned sofa and roughly pulled his jumper over his head.

"Oh, don't be like that, Malfoy. No need to be such a poor sport."

He unbuttoned the cuffs of his wrinkled, white oxford shirt, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbow. Dolohov's eyes skirted down to his left forearm.

"One of these is not like the other," the taunting voice continued.

"The Death Eaters have been laying low. Why? What are you planning?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine," Draco said.

He walked around Dolohov to face him, laying one hand on his shoulder and clenching the other.

"Have it your way," he said.

Draco drove his clenched fist into Dolohov's stomach. The wizard keeled over, expelling all of the air in his lungs in a loud gasp of pain.

"Not quite the same as a curse but it is effective," Draco said. Dolohov's head hung against Draco's shoulder and he could hear the Death Eater's uneven and rattling breath clearly in the silence. "Gratifying too, to feel the pain you're causing. I don't think you've given muggles their dues, Dolohov."

"You think this proves anything?" Dolohov snarled. "Fighting like a filthy deserve to be put out of your misery like them, you undeserving blood traitor."

"We're getting a bit off topic now," Draco said, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Tell me what you're planning."

"Like hell."

"Let's take a trip down memory lane, then."

Dolohov's smirk eased into a hard line.

"You didn't think you were the only one here with a trick up his sleeve, did you? Occlumens," he said, pointing at Dolohov. "Legilimens." Draco pointed to himself.

"You think you can get inside my head?"

"I know I can," Draco said, fixing his gaze on the Death Eater. "Now focus. Don't make this too easy for me."

There was a wall Draco had to push through, but as he suspected it was little more than a makeshift barrier, a little dam in a little creek. Dolohov made damned sure to think about anything and everything irrelevant. He conjured up memories of the battle at the Department of Mysteries, of several attacks on muggles, of duels with witches and wizards, and he thought of that day at Malfoy Manor. As his thoughts settled on strangling Granger, Draco could feel the sadistic pleasure he got out of watching her eyes dim. He ripped through the memory, forcing what Dolohov was hiding to the surface. Legilimency wasn't an exact science, in fact it wasn't a science at all. The moment he found what he was looking for, Draco had to hold focus all of his attention on that single memory before it could slip away or Dolohov could hide it again.

_"Those useless bottom-feeders have done nothing right," a voice said from beyond the darkened edge of the memory. _

_"And that filthy half-breed Greyback is leading them."_

_"He's been useful thus far," a second voice said._

_"Name one thing he done right lately," a crude third voice said._

_"They captured a couple of undesirables," the second voice said._

_"Oh?"_

_"Dean Thomas and Ted Tonks, a half-blood and a Mudblood."_

_"Care to elaborate?"_

_"Yea, what good are they to us? We don't need 'em," the third voice said. "Send 'em off to Azkaban and let the Dementors have at 'em."_

_"No, you fool, we do need them," the second voice said. "We've been informed that Thomas is part of that laughable club Potter started, Dumbledore's Army."_

_This elicited a laugh from the third man._

_"And Tonks is the father of an Order member."_

_"Nymphadora?" a soft, feminine voice asked._

Draco recognized the voice immediately. It was his mother.

_"That's right. We have two people that, if Potter found out we had them and there was something he could do about it, he would. In fact, I'm counting on it."_

_"Bait," the third man chuckled._

_"How could noble Harry Potter resist an opportunity to save his friends and make the world safe again?"_

Draco forced himself out of Dolohov's memory, stepping back and breathing heavily.

"That's right," Dolohov said with a nasty smirk. "Didn't like that, did you? Dear old mum helping the bad guys?"

"Shut up," Draco snapped.

"Touched a nerve, have I?"

"I told you to shut up."

"That isn't your only lady trouble, is it? I saw the way you skipped over our little dance at the Manor rather quickly. Trouble seeing it a second time? Well, I rather enjoyed it. I wouldn't mind another go with that wily one. She's got so much...spirit for a Mudblood, and between you and I, she is quite bewitching. Such bright eyes and supple skin, and that mouth is—"

Draco smashed his fist into Dolohov's already crooked nose. He heard the satisfying crunch of something breaking and had the pleasure of watching blood pour down his face. Dolohov blinked as white spots filled his vision, laughing as his head lolled back.

"This is a new low for you, Malfoy. Feeling for a _Mudblood_."

"I'm done with you," Draco said.

"Alright," Dolohov smirked. "But before I go, I have a final request."

Draco walked to the sofa and picked up the wand.

"It's only fair, now. I gave you what you want, now you might oblige me."

Draco should've walked away, he shouldn't have encouraged Dolohov's mind games. But he did.

"What is it?"

"I just want to see the look on your face when you find out that your mother is dead."

"What?" Draco asked, squaring himself to the grinning lunatic.

"Like father like son. Lucius proved to be utterly useless, he failed to do what the Dark Lord asked and as punishment, his lovely wife was murdered. And by the Dark Lord himself! What an _honour_."

"You're lying."

"Have I ever lied to you? The reason why it was so easy for you to get inside my mind was because I was protecting a very different memory than the one you were looking for. What you want is top shelf...would you like to see?"

Draco moved to hit Dolohov again. The wizard tilted his chin up in time for Draco's fist to catch him in the jaw. Dolohov reared back and spat in Draco's face, spraying him with blood. Draco pulled his fist back with every intention of hitting Dolohov until he could no longer feel his hand. His ears were ringing but he could make out Mad-Eye's hobbled footsteps rushing up behind him.

"Malfoy!" Mad-Eye shouted at him, grabbing the scruff of his shirt and trying to haul him off Dolohov.

Draco was no longer seeing sense. He was seeing red.

"And she cowered!"

Draco threw his weight into Mad-Eye, pushing him off. The old wizard was shouting at him but the voice was muffled, almost like Draco was underwater. The ringing was deafening now and all he cared to hear was Dolohov's voice. That was all he needed, the little nudge that would push him over the edge.

"SHE BEGGED!"

Draco held the wand to Dolohov's throat, pushing it sharply up under his chin.

"'Please, please...no. Please don't. We'll do better.'" Dolohov mocked.

"Think about this, boy," Mad-Eye said, drawing his own wand and pointing it at Draco.

"I have thought about it," Draco said.

"It's true," Dolohov grinned. "He has."

"Shut up," Draco snarled, giving the wand a sharp jab. "Are you just going to keep that wand pointed at my back or are you going to stop me?"

Draco kept his flat, grey eyes fixed on Dolohov's bloody face.

"I can tell you now, it won't be worth it. You hear me? It'll just weigh on you," Mad-Eye said.

"This is _exciting_," Dolohov grinned.

"Do you want this on your conscience?" Mad-Eye asked. "Hm? Do you?"

Draco looked over his shoulder at Mad-Eye, standing just to his side with his wand at the ready. There was something noncommittal in his posture, though. Mad-Eye was a notorious Auror. Not only were his dueling skills nearly unmatched, but he could think like dark witches and wizards. He was always one step ahead. There seemed to be no one he couldn't find and capture. But Mad-Eye's notoriety came with a price. This intimate knowledge of what it meant to play God, to choose whether or not someone died, was something he was all too familiar with. Whereas Mad-Eye had taken a life in order to protect the wizarding world, Draco had taken one to hurt it. Draco, it seemed, was on the same path from which there was no coming back.

"What conscience?" Draco asked.

* * *

Hermione stirred her cold tea aimlessly. It was well past midnight but she hadn't bothered to change out of her clothing. She'd be kidding herself if she thought she'd be getting any sleep. Draco had been gone for what felt like ages, without so much as a word. She wasn't sure it was worry or anger that kept her up and waiting. Perhaps it was equal parts of both; concern for his well-being and indignation that she hadn't been told about what was going on. Although she understood why no one told her, she didn't condone the decision. She wouldn't put up a fight and challenged the decision on principle. It was wrong, there was no way around that. How could they consider themselves better than the Death Eaters if they resorted to the same tactics? Surely they could triumph and still keep their moral integrity intact.

She sat up straight and strained to listen when she thought she heard the faint pop of someone apparating outside. There was a long silence before a shuffle of feet on the front step. Hermione leapt out of her chair and rushed to the front door as Draco stepped inside the dark entranceway.

"Where where you?" she asked, stopping in front of the stairs.

"Out," he snapped.

Hermione grabbed his chin and tilted it so the light illuminated his face. There were dark flecks and smears on his face.

"Is that blood?"

"It's not mine," he said, wrenching his face out of her grasp.

"Is it Dolohov's?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, trying to step around her.

He wasn't going to bother to ask how she knew about Dolohov because he didn't care. All he wanted was to go upstairs, to lock himself away and stay there until the nightmare ended, but Hermione moved in front of him.

"What happened?"

"None of your business," he said. "Now move."

"Who came up with this brilliant idea?" she persisted. "And who said it was alright for you to coerce information—"

"Just stop talking, stop fucking coddling me, and stop sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. Can't you see where you're unwanted or are you truly that dense?" he snapped, shoving past her and continuing up the stairs.

"Wait," she started, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

"ARE YOU DEAF?" he shouted, turning and pulling his arm away from her.

She looked taken aback and hesitated a couple of steps below him.

"I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!"

"What is wrong with you?" she asked.

"What's wrong with me? You want to know?" he asked, slowly stepping down to the stair above hers, his bright eyes made even more so by their glassy sheen. "My mother is dead, Granger, and I've just killed someone. That's what's wrong. Are you happy now?"

"No," she breathed. "Of course not."

"Well it seems like the only time you are happy is when you know everything. So there you go."

"I'm so sorry, Draco."

She put her hand gently on his arm and he shrugged it off.

"Don't," he snapped. "I don't want or need your pity."

"It's not pity," she said. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

"Do you hear yourself? I just murdered someone or did you miss that part? Empty sentiments should be the last thing on your mind. Why don't you scamper off and find another way to save the world. This charity act is wearing a bit thin."

"Stop it!" she shouted. "Why can't you just accept that I want to help you. I am trying to—"

"Because I don't want your help!" he shouted. "I don't want anything from you."

"I know that's not true," she said.

"Well I changed my mind."

"And I changed mine," she said.

He stared at her, willing her to leave but she didn't. Hermione reached up and brushed the hair from his eyes. It was strange that he looked so broken but his eyes were cold and hard. She let her hand fall to his side and entwined her hand with his. Draco frowned but he didn't pull away from her. It was a small victory, but it was enough for her. Draco didn't want her help but she knew that he needed it. He needed something, someone to hold onto. Hermione felt his palm press against hers and his fingers close around her own. She started upstairs and he followed her.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Fate

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

My apologies for how long this chapter took! I have what I hope is a reasonable explanation.

There was a bit of dialogue involving Mad-Eye that I had a lot of trouble with. No matter how many times I read the books or watched the films, I couldn't replicate his unique voice in my writing. Hopefully that's not a testament to my writing skills but to J.K. Rowling's expert crafting of a truly amazing character. In real life people are enigmas, so it's only natural the best characters are too. I'm still not entirely happy with the way his dialogue turned out but I'm at my wits end!

I then ran into another road block. There's a particular scene I wrote as a flashback/memory (it's in italics to denote this). I had written the rest of the chapter already so I had a hard time figuring out how I was going to fit it in without sacrificing the natural progression of the story. Hopefully it's not too choppy!

In this chapter I really had to pick and choose what scenes I wanted to write and those I wanted to mention. If I wrote all of them, this chapter would be a novel in and of itself! Here are the honourable mentions (scenes that were briefly mentioned and not explored in full IMAX detail): what would've been a very interesting scene between Snape and Hermione involving the exchange of a diary as well as a scene involving the Order, the Tabboo, and a serious Death Eater ass kicking a la Draco Malfoy.

On a happier note, I sketched out how I'd like the rest of the story to turn out! Hopefully there will be no more delays in the plot department. Now, I would like to take the time to thank all you wonderful readers for being so patient! I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter. It was definitely the hardest I've had to write but ultimately the most gratifying as well. Hopefully you think so too!

Leave a review to let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
****FATE**

"Wheels have been set in motion, and they have their own pace, to which we are…condemned."  
_Tom Stoppard_

Draco opened his eyes. It was a strange sensation, waking up. He'd almost forgotten what sleep felt like. Stranger than that, though, was the warmth of a body flush against his own. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shared a bed with anyone. The telltale brown curls clouding his vision were enough to tell him who he had in his arms, but the thought occurred to him that this fleeting moment of contentment could be nothing more than one of his his cruel and unusual dreams. Then the unpleasant memories of the previous night filtered through the calm.

He let himself be pulled along, wishing nothing more than to be alone. Hermione knew better, though. How could she leave him to his own devices when it was then that he needed someone the most? If not to talk, then at least to be with. Loneliness was a terrible condition, but it was made so much worse when it was no longer self-imposed. In a manner of speaking, Hermione had lost both of her parents. There was always the possibility that she would see them again some day and that thought alone carried her through many difficult days. Draco had lost both parents now. He had lost Lucius long ago to a neglectful disdain of his paternal obligations, but to lose the only parent he'd ever cared for was worse than Hermione could imagine. Draco was, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world. That was a kind of loneliness that could eat away at the frayed edges of a person until there was nothing left but bitterness and hatred.

Hermione walked to her room and pulled him inside. She let go of his hand and gently closed the door. There was no one in the house to disturb them with Draco's older self somewhere upstairs, but there needed to be something between them and the deafening silence, the tangible emptiness of the house. She turned to face him and he was sitting on the edge of her bed. He didn't look at her as she took a seat next to him. She might as well not have existed. His glassy eyes were fixed on the faded wallpaper in front of him. For what seemed like the first time in her life, Hermione didn't know what to say. She didn't know if there was anything she could say. He was floundering right in front of her. So Hermione did the only thing she could think of: she wrapped her arms around his hunched, deflated form. Draco didn't pull away or lash out at her, but sat completely still as if she'd done nothing at all.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

There was no reason to whisper but the words were already too loud, too heavy in the silent room. Maybe this time around he believed her or maybe he just couldn't push anymore. Whatever the reason, something in him changed. She could feel him let out a shuddering breath. She didn't know whether or not he was crying. In the dark she couldn't see his face clearly. He shifted on the bed, knocking his knees against her own. Hermione could feel his muscles relax under her touch. He eased into her arms and placed his head on her chest. Hermione had no grand illusions about him. Draco Malfoy was many things. He was a right bastard sometimes. He was selfish and cruel, unbearably rude and conceited, and he always let his pride get the better of him, but he was only human and the human spirit could only endure so much abuse. There comes a point and time when everyone needs help and as difficult as it was for him to admit it or show any sign of weakness, Draco couldn't stand alone and pretend he was invincible or untouchable. He could be beaten and broken like the rest of them, but he couldn't do it alone.

And so he let himself lay back and fall asleep for the first time in weeks. He felt no shame or weakness, only a terrible ache and an unbearable anger sitting just beneath the surface. He could feel her heartbeat under the palm of his hand, his hand resting gently on her stomach, and he was certain this was no dream. The steady beat was rhythmic and oddly reassuring.

He only just lifted his hand with the intention of slipping out before she woke but she shifted again, turning over sleepily. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the early morning din.

"Did you sleep?"

He nodded. Oddly enough, he had.

"Good," she said, her voice thick with sleep.

She reached up between them and gently traced the scar cutting through his eyebrow, following the line where the fine blonde hair would never grow again. His grey eyes seemed flat and lifeless but they ardently bore into hers. Draco consigned himself to defeat. There was no way he could leave now. Looking into her warm brown eyes, he'd fallen into the honey trap. He didn't want it this way, though. He wanted to earn her affection, to show her that wanting him wasn't so terrible, but Hermione wasn't looking at him with anything akin to attraction or desire. It was pity and sadness. Any remotely sane person would tell him that no amount of physical contact wouldn't numb the pain. It wasn't healthy nor was it constructive, but he wanted her so desperately he was willing to take anything she had to offer. The soft blades of her fingertips on his face, the warm palm of her hand cradling his jaw, that was enough for him. He eased his hand around her back, pressing firmly and drawing her closer. His hand fell to the small of her back and he let his thumb rest along the gentle slope of her spine. Not once during the morning did she press him or ask him how he felt. He didn't want to talk and she had sense enough to know that it was better if they just lay there in silence. All he needed then was companionship, a bulwark, a light to fend off the all-encompassing darkness that had begun to seep in the cracks. And Hermione Granger did nothing but exude warmth.

* * *

The morning passed in relative quietude. There were no visitors, there was no post, and their guest upstairs made no noise whatsoever. Hermione almost forgot he was there at all. Even though she was staring into those same grey eyes, they had begun to seem like two very different people again. As much as she hated to think on it, perhaps the death of his mother was a catalyst that incited the change in his demeanor. Though that still didn't explain how she suddenly felt so differently about them. She was initially drawn to the older Draco, responding to his rationality and sensibility. Now she was beginning to think she was compelled by intrigue more than anything. Although brash and sometimes cruel, the younger Draco that she had been so accustomed to hating seemed more sincere and more genuine than his future self. Hermione resented the secrecy which kept the older Draco so distant. She didn't always want to know what his younger self was thinking—she was well aware it was not all good—but that she always _knew_ was a welcome change.

Hermione had completely lost track of time. She could hear the steady sound of a second hand counting down the minutes until their brief interlude would be over, but she couldn't be bothered to glance at the clock. The only rhythmic sound she had paid any attention to was that of Draco's breathing. It was quiet and steady, and his calmness only prolonged the illusion that everything was alright.

Hermione thought she heard the faint _pop_ of apparition. She propped herself up on her elbow, straining her ears. Draco sighed.

"It's nothing," he murmured.

She looked down at him with a small grin. It pleased her to know that the possibility of an interruption irritated him so. He wanted just as much as her to stay in the bed until they grew sick and tired of one another. His eyes were closed but he'd clearly not been sleeping. She continued to listen carefully, resisting Draco's attempt to have her ignore it.

"It could be an Order member," she said.

"Ignore it."

He tried to be very persuasive. He had no desire to see whoever it was that had just interrupted whatever it was that was going on between them. The back of her jumper had ridden up and he slid his hand along the exposed skin just above the waistband of her jeans. He could feel her tense up. Her stiff posture was markedly different from the languid, sleepy movements of the morning. It wasn't meant to be a sexual advance. It was an exploration. Her skin was impossibly soft and warm, and all he could think about was the uncharted territory he'd fallen into. His touch wasn't dominating, it was curious. She had never been touched like this, he was sure of that. When he opened his eyes, he could see her looking down at him bright eyes, the quick rise and fall of her chest. He could see it, it was as exciting as it was frightening for her. She slowly relaxed into his touch, but the sound of the front door prompted her to tear her gaze from his.

Hermione slid off the bed and made a poor attempt to flatten her wrinkled jumper. She made her way downstairs and she could hear Draco get up behind her, the bed groaning under his weight. As she came down the stairs, she could see Moody standing in the entrance way. The collar of his shabby wool coat was turned up and there was snow in his hair and on his slumped shoulders. She could hear him grumbling about the cold under his breath.

"Is everything alright, Mad-Eye?" Hermione asked.

Moody rarely stopped by Grimmauld Place and his presence alone was enough to worry Hermione.

"Yes, everything but the blasted weather," he said.

"Would you like me to put on some tea?" she asked.

"No, I won't be here long."

"Here I was expecting the calvary," Draco said, stopping on the stairs behind Hermione and leaning on the railing. "Or maybe you're just the emissary."

Moody took in their wrinkled clothing and unruly hair.

"A word," he said gruffly, unfazed by Draco's biting sarcasm.

"Fine," Draco sighed.

He'd been expecting someone to come but Mad-Eye Moody was not the first person on that list. Draco assumed it would be some self-righteous character that would chastise him and lecture him on his wicked ways. A malcontent nutter like Moody could either be a blessing or a curse. He probably wouldn't have to listen to a diatribe on moral superiority but at the same time, Draco had no idea what to expect. He made his way down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen. He glanced up, catching Hermione's worried frown just before he disappeared through the crooked doorway into the low kitchen.

Hermione lingered on the stairs as they disappeared down the hall. She could hear Moody's prosthetic leg making a hollow thump on the well-worn wood with every other step. She had no chance of eavesdropping, not that it was an acceptable thing to do but because Moody most likely had his magical eye fixed on her. She wasn't certain but she suspected their talk would have something to do with what happened the previous night during Dolohov's interrogation. If that wasn't reason enough for a member of the Order to show up on the front steps, she didn't what was. To be honest, though, she'd expected them much earlier. She could think of a handful of people that would be up in arms had they learned what Draco had done. They would want him out of the Order, out of the house, and as far away from them as possible. Draco was a social pariah to begin with. Now he was a downright undesirable no better than the likes of some of the nastiest Death Eaters. Before her train of thought could start its dark downward spiral toward the reason she wasn't exceptionally bothered by the fact Draco had murdered someone in cold blood, she climbed the stairs to the study.

The fire was lit but Hermione was drawn to the dreary, muted light coming from the window. She looked out at the rundown neighbourhood surrounding Grimmauld Place. The ground was covered in a thin sheet of slushy snow. It wasn't the sort of snow that would last, though. It would most likely melt and the ground would begin to thaw before everything would freeze once again. Early winter was the worst time of the year. If it didn't rain, it snowed, and the damp could chill to the bone. The snow also meant that Harry and Ron would be visiting, something she was greatly looking forward to. She had a bit more bounce in her step since she'd heard the news, but

she could think of a couple people that didn't in her enthusiasm, or rather one person from two different times. Harry and Ron brought out the worst in Draco, and vise versa. All that time and effort he'd put into convincing people that he wasn't going to pick them off one by one would be for naught. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was the vindictiveness Draco had toward her two closest friends.

Back downstairs, Draco took a seat at the kitchen table. He was beginning to hate this room. Every unpleasant conversation he had at Grimmauld Place seemed to take place in the little kitchen with the slanted ceiling.

"How are you?" Moody asked, taking the seat opposite him.

Draco turned to look at the surly, old wizard. The question was more of a test than an expression of genuine concern. Moody was watching him carefully, his magical blue eye observing the minute changes in his face in the same way a lie detector monitored heart rates. Draco's expression was listless and stoney though. Any changes were few, far, and in between.

"Haven't gone mad yet."

Moody seemed to take this with a grain of salt. Draco's hardened expression wasn't fooling anyone, least of all the one person who could—quite literally—see right through him.

"What about those dreams of yours?" Moody asked.

"What about them?"

"Still keeping you awake at night?"

"There is really no need for forced pleasantries," Draco said, dodging the question. "I sincerely doubt this is what you've come to talk to me about."

"No, it's not. "Here," he said, reaching inside the large, droopy pockets of his coat and pulling out a small object.

Whatever it was, it was poorly wrapped in brown packing paper and held together with a knotted piece of yarn. Moody held the package out. Draco just looked at it with a justifiable expression of suspicion. He was crazy after all. All this lollygagging elicited an impatient sigh from Moody.

"Go on," Moody said, shaking the small object. "Take it."

"What is it?" Draco asked, taking it with extreme caution. He slowly peeling off the soggy paper.

"A Foe-Glass. You've crossed a lot of dark wizards, made some powerful enemies. They'd love to get their hands on you so you best want to keep an eye on them."

Draco scoffed. "They're busy looking for Potter and terrorizing the villagers."

"They don't take kindly to one of their own turning on them. You should know that better than anyone."

Moody looked pointedly at the Dark Mark peeking out from beneath Draco's sleeve.

"You've attracted a lot of nasty attention and I wouldn't be surprised if the rest of the Order went and decided to lock you up in here," Moody continued.

"People die, that's generally what happens in a war. I can't be punished for doing the same as everyone else."

"Watch yourself, you dumb lout," Moody barked. "I shouldn't have to tell you that your business isn't your own. You're a part of this Order now whether you like it or not and letting your personal grudges interfere is not the way you want to be going about things."

"A personal grudge?" he asked, his voice escalating. "My mother was _murdered_."

"Calm down! I'm not passing judgement. I understand why you did it," Moody said. "But a lot of people here won't trust it, not for one minute. Those shadows in that Foe-Glass aren't the only ones you have to keep an eye on now."

"I've never seen one like this," Draco said, turning the object over in his hands. It was a circular mirror set in a small, brass frame. He flicked the top of the shadowy surface and it spun wildly. For reasons he couldn't explain, the oscillating mirror made his stomach drop. It was an unpleasant, foreboding feeling. Utterly inexplicable but also entirely unforgettable. It was that sense of déja-vu, of _familiarity_.

"Bit like a Time-Turner," Moody said, watching him carefully.

Draco looked up sharply. "What?"

Moody gestured to the Foe-Glass. "The way it spins is like a Time-Turner."

When the mirror stopped Draco could see his own reflection in the hazy din. In the background where distant, indistinct silhouettes.

"I've never seen one before."

Whatever Draco said seemed to appease Moody but he wasn't being entirely honest. For reasons he couldn't explain, it felt like he had seen it somewhere before. Like something out of the corner of your eye, though, he couldn't quite remember where. Inexplicable waves of déja-vu where not something he wanted to bring to anyone's attention, least of all to a paranoid ex-Auror who was already suspicious of him to begin with.

"It's smaller but it works like any other Foe-Glass," Moody said, gesturing to the small device in Draco's hand. "Keep it on you at all times. Use it to watch your enemies. If one of those figures gets any clearer you'll want to watch your back. Understand? Don't be daft enough to think they won't come after you."

Moody's career had really done a number on him. Not only was he absolutely mental, but he was a paranoid old codger.

"I suppose not all of us can have eyes in the back of our head," Draco said, looking up at Moody.

* * *

In fits of restlessness, Draco had taken to sitting at the window in the study when the house was empty and when his younger self was away on business with the Order. These opportunities to stretch his legs and maintain what sense of sanity he had left became more frequent as his younger self became increasingly useful to the Order. It was hardly a surprise, though. Not after Dolohov. He possessed a keen understanding of the Dark Arts, more so than Mad-Eye or even Snape. Like those in his family before him, Draco had been bred to be a dark wizard.

Wet snow pelted the window and there was little to see beyond the pane of glass. Neither the ghostly shapes of the park across the street nor the book on his lap could hold his interest. Instead, he watched Hermione frantically flit about the room. She combed the spines of every book on the bookshelf twice. She'd gone through the cluttered glass cabinets with nothing but dusty heirlooms in the hope of finding whatever it was she was looking for. Finding nothing there, she turned her attention to her desk. Draco found it strange her desk was always so disorganized. There were toppling piles of parchment, old quills, and open books covering a desktop he'd never seen before. Hermione was a perfectionist in many regards but the writing desk in the back corner of the study was a far cry from perfect. As it were, brilliance seemed to breed chaos.

"Hermione?"

"Yes, what is it?" she asked, checking under sheafs of parchment littering the desktop.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Flying my broomstick?"

It took Draco an inhuman degree of self-restraint not to be brash and reply with an insult. She'd been short-tempered and agitated all evening, and it only got worse as the night wore on.

"You don't need to worry," he said. "I..._he_ will be fine."

There was a seismic shift in the house the night after Dolohov was murdered. Hermione drifted further and further away every day. He couldn't blame her, not when he repeatedly lied to her and kept secrets from her. It was his own doing, and although it was miserable to see her pull away, it was part of the design. It wasn't him she was supposed to be with, not anymore. Although completely irrational, Draco couldn't quell the growing animosity and jealousy he felt toward his younger self. While he had loved and lost, his younger self didn't know any of that grief or pain and, unlike Draco, he never would.

Worse than that was having to see how much it bothered her when his younger self was absent. She was anxious, always looking for something to fill the hours with until he was back at Grimmauld Place. Each time he stepped through the front door unscathed, she visibly relaxed and it was as though nothing had happened at all. Meanwhile, Draco locked himself upstairs until the next time his younger self would leave.

"I'm not worried," she lied.

"The Tabboo isn't serious," he said. "And Grimmauld Place is protected by a Fidelius Charm."

Hermione said nothing but marched over to the sofa, tossing pillows over her shoulder and searching under the seat cushions. Draco was well aware that it wasn't her own well-being she was concerned with.

The Tabbo was a clever and quick way for Death Eaters to track and find people of interest. The only ones bold enough to use Voldemort's name were Order members and associates. It didn't take long for everyone to figure out about the jinx once Death Eaters to descended on Kingsley after using Voldemort's name. Before going on the run, he was able to send word to Lupin. Hermione and Draco had only just heard when several Order members turned up at Grimmauld Place in a panic. The news had spread to Potterwatch but not quickly enough. From what they had heard, several people had been cornered in different Death Eater attacks.

Earlier in the evening, a small group of Order members were huddled around the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place, wet boots dripping on the stone floor, coats still on with wands in hand.

_"We'll go in small groups to defuse the situation as quickly as possible," Lupin said._

_"How many have you heard from?" Tonks asked._

_"Three or four groups at least," he replied._

_"Whereabouts?" Mr. Weasley asked._

_"All are in the countryside near small muggle towns. I'm guessing most were on the run."_

_"Did anyone send word to Lee?" Fred asked._

_"He's already issued a warning," Lupin said._

_"I've just heard it on the radio," George said, walking into the kitchen with Bill and Fleur._

_There were several nods and sighs of relief._

_"Groups of three," Mad-Eye said. "We'll go by side-along apparition. All we have are their general locations and we can't have anyone getting lost out there."_

_"I'm coming with you," Draco said._

_The plan came together quickly and the conversation had been short and to the point. Everyone turned to look at Draco, some with surprise and others with wary expressions. They wouldn't have known he was there had he not said anything. While they stood in a group at the table, Draco stood back, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, biding his time, and listening intently. Everyone knew what had happened at the Shrieking Shack. Just as Moody had predicted, it struck a chord with some members of the Order. It was no longer about questioning his loyalties but about questioning whether he had the Order's interests in mind or revenge in mind. The last thing they needed now was an argument about whether or not Draco was a threat to them, a liability. The twins finally interrupted the tense silence that had so suddenly filled the room._

_"I don't know about you lot but knowing he's done in a Death Eater makes me feel loads better about this," Fred said._

_"Seconded," George nodded._

_Mr. Weasley glared at his sons from down the table._

_Lupin made a gesture to speak but Draco interrupted him._

_"You've lost the advantage. The Death Eaters have a leg up on you and what you need right now is strength in numbers," he said._

_"He's right," Bill said. "With so many Order members indisposed, we need as much help as we can get."_

_"It's settled then," Mad-Eye said, heading toward the entranceway before anyone could make a fuss._

_The small kitchen broke out in a flurry of movement, everyone competing to talk over one another and sort out where they was going. Lupin headed straight for Tonks and took her outstretched hand in his._

_"Go to your mother's," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."_

_"You better," she said, trying to cover the worry in her expression with a teasing smile._

_He gave a gently squeeze of her hand and left with Fred and George. Hermione watched as she absently touched her round belly and then glanced around the room, searching for Draco's shock of blonde hair. She spotted him in the hallway where everyone was preparing to leave. He said something to Bill before walking toward her._

_"I need my wand," he said._

_She didn't know what she was expecting him to do or say but she couldn't help feeling disappointed after seeing the intimate exchange between Lupin and Tonks._

_"Right," Hermione said. "It's in the top drawer of my bedside table."_

_Without a word he rushed upstairs. Hermione walked over to Mad-Eye._

_"I can help," she said._

_"You can help by staying here."_

_Hermione had expected as much. Grimmauld Place was their last safe haven. As Secret Keeper she had an obligation to protect it, especially in their absence. The odds were not in their favour and they couldn't risk losing one of their few assets. Now wasn't the time to put up a fight, though. As much as she wanted to go with them, she wanted to see everyone safe and out of harm's way even more. The only way that was going to happen was if she let them go._

_Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Fleur were the next to head out. Draco came down the stairs just as they were leaving. With a pointed look at Draco, Mad-Eye turned and followed the second party out. He was not a patient man and he wouldn't be kept waiting outside. There was no pause in Draco's step nor any sign of hesitation. He didn't walk over to her and try to make her feel better about being left behind or tell her not to worry and she didn't tell him to be careful. All it really took was one glance in her direction. Before closing the door behind him, Draco turned and look at her, and those words of caution and consolation were entirely pointless because there was no question of what they could've said, what they would've said._

"What are you looking for?"

Hermione looked over at him, shaking the memory off.

"My runes dictionary. Have you seen it?"

"What do you need it for?"

"Snape sent me a journal he found in the Headmaster's office. The name engraved on the front cover is Owle Bullock."

"Snape?" Draco prompted. "Severus Snape?"

"Yes, of course," Hermione snapped. "How many other Snapes do you know?"

"Didn't Owle Bullock write _Secrets of the_—"

"_Darkest Art_, yes," Hermione finished, sorting through a dangerously tall stack of books next to her desk. "Unfortunately, I can't verify whether or not it belongs to him unless I find my runes dictionary. It seems he was remarkably paranoid. His entire journal is written in an obscure script with runes I've never seen before."

"Wait," he said, shaking his head as everything began to make sense. "You're trying to decipher the private thoughts and musings of the madman who wrote the instruction manual on how to create a Horcrux?"

"Yes."

"Are you out of your mind? Bullock was a dark wizard, dark as they come."

"And the surface of the sun is hot," she said. "Any other painfully obvious statements you'd like to make?"

"I can think of one or two," he said, glaring at her.

"You didn't answer my question," she said, ignoring his quip. "Have you seen it?"

"It's in my room," he said thoughtlessly.

Hermione glared at him as she made to move toward the door.

"Wait," he said, jumping to his feet and blocking her path. "What are you looking for in Bullock's journal?"

"More information on how to destroy a Horcrux," she said. "Now please move."

He stepped to the side and she brushed past him.

As she climbed the stairs to the top floor, it occurred to her she hadn't been in his room since he first arrived. It looked much different than she remembered. When it belonged to Regulus, the walls were covered with articles about the Dark Lord, photographs from the Prophet. Those had been taken down to reveal striped wallpaper that was old and uncared for. The furniture in the room was old as well, poorly maintained like so much in the house. His bed was neatly made. Every shelf and surface in the room was empty, devoid of any personal belongings. She ran a finger along the dusty surface of the bookshelf. It was so cold and impersonal. In some way, it seemed transitory. It looked like one stop on the way to something else except he had nowhere else to go, not that she knew of at least. There were a great many things she didn't know about him, though. He was so adamant that he stay, now it seemed like he was ready to leave at any time.

On the other side of the room, sitting against a window, was an antique desk. It was the only beautiful thing about the room. A traditional writing desk carved out of a sturdy wood, covered with a glossy coat of black paint that had begun to chip away. It seemed to be the only clean surface in the room, the only habitable space. Hermione spotted a small stack of books. She walked the short distance from the door to the table, but slowed when she spotted a notebook lying open on the desk. It was a perfectly ordinary notebook with lined pages. The soft leather binding looked old and the pages were curled like someone had rolled it up repeatedly.

As she got closer, she could make out heavily slanted, impossibly neat writing. The page was filled with dates. Hermione looked over her shoulder to the empty landing. She knew it was wrong to intrude on the privacy of others but he had asked for it. He kept so many secrets from her, she knew absolutely nothing about him. He was a perfect stranger living in her house. The notebook was almost weightless, but as she flipped the pages it seemed to gather a different sort of weight.

It was wrong to pry, she knew that. She would be livid if the roles were reversed. Still, the book maintained an inexplicable quality, like a siren call. It was the only personal belonging in his empty room without trinkets or knickknacks.

She looked carefully at the dates. Some were just dates written on the page:

_August 13, 1997  
__October 3, 1997  
__November 4, 1997  
__November 5, 1997_

They seemed inconsequential, but she noticed others had notes beside them:

_December 9, 1997 - first snowfall  
__December 21, 1997 - homecoming  
__December 22, 1997 - Gringotts  
__December 25, 1997 - Christmas, the Ministry & the departure  
__December 26, 1997 - St. Mungo's_

It came as no surprise to her that he knew about the Horcruxes. The Order undoubtedly trusted him as they did now, but she wasn't sure what to make of the rest. Snow in winter hardly seemed to be an important moment in time until she realized what day the first snowfall was. It was the day after Draco went to the Shrieking Shack. She didn't know what 'homecoming' referred to or what was meant by the Ministry and St. Mungo's. Perhaps something was going to happen on those days, at those particular places. His journal was impossible for her to decipher, but the mention of the first snowfall of the season made her uneasy.

She turned the page, skimming through cryptic lists of dates. Her name turned up a number of times much to her surprise, so did the names of members of the Order as well as Death Eaters. Next to some dates were just numbers and next to others there were addresses. Some had been hazardously blotted out, as though he tried to erase them from his memory. Some dates were followed by initials and words like 'death,' 'murdered,' and 'missing.' Hermione turned to the last page, her finger running down the list. She could feel the spots where Draco had pushed the quill into the page, following the fluid lines and indentations of his handwriting.

The last date was scrawled and difficult to read, entirely different from the meticulous writing that filled the notebook:

_November 26, 1999? - H.G. murdered by B.L._

H.G.

Hermione Granger.

_Murdered_.

An invisible weight seemed to push down on Hermione's chest, forcing the air from her lungs. She tried to take a deep breath but could only muster a shallow one. Her heart was palpitating violently, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She inhaled again, trying desperately to steal a deep breath of cool air. Again, her body resisted.

"Hermione."

His voice came from somewhere behind her. She hadn't heard him come up the stairs. She couldn't hear anything except for a terrible ringing in her ears and the sound of her own shallow breathing.

"Shit," he said, his voice closer still. "Listen to me—"

"H.G.," she snapped, turning to face him. "Are those my initials? Is this me?"

"Why don't you sit down."

"NO!" she screamed, shaking the notebook at him. "I don't want to sit down. I want you to tell me the truth! Are those mine?"

She already knew the answer to her question and his hesitation only confirmed it.

Draco was standing in the middle of the room, a wide-eyed expression on his face. He had one hand stretched out toward her, as if she was going to fall and he was about to catch her. Even the way he stood in front of her was cautious, his stance wide, his weight evenly distributed.

Shortly after she had gone upstairs he realized what he had done. In the early hours of the morning, those few hours when the rest of the world was asleep, he sat at his desk, mulling over the timelines he had created. The one he could remember, the timeline of his life back in his own time, was much more hazardous than the new one. He had forgotten specific dates and even people. So much had happened, so much of it he desperately wanted to forget. There finally came a time when he couldn't remember anymore. Now, though, it was more important than ever to work out the minute details. He had left the notebook sitting on the desk, next to a small stack of books, among them Hermione's runes dictionary. Initially it was a solution, a way for him to rewrite the past by mapping it out. Now, it was just another unholy source of his suffering.

"Hermione," he said slowly, trying to calm her down.

Her face was flushed and her eyes were glossy. He knew better than to think those were tears of grief or sorrow. She was angry and frustrated, she was hurt by his secrecy and her own lack of understanding.

"Just tell me," she ground out, glaring at him.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, they are."

"I'm going to die," she said, the words sounding strange on her tongue. "I'm going to be murdered."

"No," he said, taking another step closer. "No, I'm going to change all that. You're going to be fine, that's why I'm here."

She wasn't listening to a word he said. She wasn't looking at him, she was looking through him, despairing.

"And you weren't going to tell me," she said.

"Didn't you just hear me?" he asked. "You're aren't going to die. I won't let it happen."

"I thought I'd live past twenty," she said.

"Listen to me," he said rather sharply. "You know better than anyone that time can be rewritten. You've done it yourself."

"There are some things you can't change!" she said. "What if I'm supposed to die? Nothing you can do will change that."

"You don't actually believe that rubbish."

"B.L.," she said, looking at the page again. "Bellatrix Lestrange. She kills me?"

"No," he said, another step closer.

"Will it hurt?" she asked.

"Please, just listen to me," he said, reaching for her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, recoiling. "WHY?"

"Because of this!" he yelled back. "This is what happens when people don't have the future they want!"

"The future I _want_...oh, I get it. Because I'm afraid, because I don't want to die young, I'm somehow at fault for reacting like this? Am I being _irrational_, Draco? _Unreasonable_?"

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Enlighten me, Draco," she spat. "What did you mean?"

"I didn't tell you because it's not going to happen. I didn't want to upset you for no reason."

"How noble of you," she snapped. "I'm sure your conscience will be clear now that your ledger has been wiped clean."

"That's what you think this is?" he asked. "Some plan to even the score, kill one and save another? I didn't plan for this to happen. That useless Time-Turner of yours broke and I wound up here, trapped in this miserable house again! What was I supposed to do, let you die all over again?"

"Oh," she said, a harsh laugh shaking her shoulders. "I'm sorry to burden _you_ like this."

"Burden?" he repeated, his temper escalating quickly. "You have _no_ idea what I've been through, what I have to sit through all over again."

"You selfish bastard!" she shouted, hurling the notebook at him.

He ducked and it soared across the room, hitting the wall beside the door and falling to the floor.

"Do you have any idea what you've put me through?" she asked.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not," she hissed. "You're never sorry. Everything you do is for yourself."

Draco lost it.

"FINE!" he shouted. "Is that what you want to hear, Hermione? You are absolutely right. The only person I care about is myself. The thought of losing you is so unbearable that _I_ am doing everything _I_ can to keep it from happening. _I_ can't stand it. How selfish of me."

"Don't mock me," she snapped. "I know you. I know you are not a selfless person. Every cruel and terrible thing you've ever done is all the validation I need."

"And when are you going to stop punishing me for what I've done?"

Hermione glared at him.

"I am trying to help you," he insisted.

"Then tell me what happens," she said.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"How do I die?"

"It doesn't matter now," he said.

"TELL ME!"

"I don't know!"

"You're lying!"

"I'm telling you the truth," he snapped. "I don't know. I wasn't there."

"Where were you?" she asked.

Draco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly. These were not memories that he particularly wanted to revisit.

"Death Eaters showed up at Ted and Andromeda's. I left you here, I asked you to stay. Something wasn't right, I should've known the moment we got there. They hardly put up a fight. It didn't last long and then they were gone. I didn't realize until it was over that it was a diversion. It wasn't us they wanted."

"Who was it?" she asked

"It was you," he said, looking up at her.

"Why?"

"Isn't this enough?"

"You have done nothing but lie to me and it's done nothing but hurt me."

"And you think this won't hurt you? Everything I'm doing is to keep you from getting hurt. I just need you to trust me, Hermione."

Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out her wand. He could see the desperation in her eyes as she slowly lifted her arm. He looked at her with a sad expression. This wasn't her. Something had come apart in her and he wanted nothing more than to put it back together. The only way she seemed to think that was possible was by knowing the truth. He knew better, though. Looking backward, to a past that no longer existed, would do more harm than good. All he'd done since he fell back in time was punish himself and blame himself for what had happened. Slowly but surely he began to forget the good at the expense of the nightmarish and in doing so, he was losing all the best parts of himself.

"You don't want to do that," he said, his eyes fixed on her hardened expression instead of her wand.

"I'm sorry," she said, her wand hand shaking uncontrollably. "But you won't tell me what I need to know. _Legilimens_!"

An onslaught of hazy images and distant voices assaulted her.

Draco immediately thought of everything but that night, the night he left her alone and unprotected, the night he foolishly walked into their trap. Instead, he thought of everything that might distract her, everything she didn't want to know.

Hazy, unfocussed images flitted in and out of her field of vision. The wall he had built up kept her from making sense of what she was seeing, but there were images and scenes she couldn't ignore.

The first was a fragment involving the study. The fire was bright and warm, casting a warm glow about the room. She was asleep on the couch, her head rested on his shoulder. He kept his arms stretched out on the back of the couch, carefully observing her. The warmth faded into a cold, unfocussed hysteria. She could make out glimpses of faces from the Order. People were pooling in the hazy background, pressed up against aged wainscoting. She recognized it immediately, the tiny front entrance of Grimmauld Place. People were shouting and cursing. There was blood caked on top of filth. The scene unfolded so rapidly she could make little else out. It shifted to a series of fragments and brief glimpses. It was chaotic and disorganized like a half-remembered dream. She could see hands pulling at clothing and lips pressed against one another. Then she saw the large auburn curls pooling on a pillow and the Dark Mark shifting in and out of view. The dizzying onslaught of images stopped, giving way to troubling scenes of blissful domesticity. Her bed had been slept in on both sides. A kiss behind the backs of others, stolen glances, a subtle touch on the back of the neck. The gestures seemed oddly familiar and she was reminded of what she saw between Lupin and Tonks earlier that night.

"ENOUGH!" he yelled, forcing her out of his mind.

Hermione staggered backwards, blinking, trying to separate the two very different realities. She bumped into the end of his bed, the dreamy glaze clouding her vision slowly fading.

"Those...were your memories."

"Yes," he said.

He knew what she would say next before the thought ever crossed her mind. There were few things she could leave up to fate or chance and now that she'd seen what her future might look like, she needed to know exactly what it was, what everything meant.

"Tell me who I am."

He opened his mouth to speak, armed with a sarcastic comment that would most likely make things worse, but she interrupted him.

"To you," she clarified. "Who am I to you?"

Her daunting question hung in the air like a heavy fog, obscuring what seemed so painfully obvious.

Hermione knew exactly who she was. She had always known. When Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on her head at the age of eleven, she was certain of who she was: Hermione Granger. Intelligent, proud, kind, caring, and confident. But she didn't know who she was to him.

Unlike so many others, she had a small glimpse into her future, a future inextricably linked with Draco's.

She didn't want to ask him again. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know the answer to her own question, but she knew she had to know. Regardless of his reply, she had a choice to make. Every piece of her future that he handed to her, whether accidentally or on purpose, gave her reason to wonder. What if she could change her own future? He had given her a choice. None of what she had seen, none of his memories of her, had to happen.

"You're my wife."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	15. Chapter Fifteen: What Could Still Be

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

So this chapter is mostly filler and it really doesn't advance the plot too much. I can't have all the good action bits happening in quick succession without the story seeming too rushed. I also want to take the time now to emphasize that I'm trying to create a natural relationship between Hermione and Draco, something that develops from nothing into something. Their conversations and exchanges are more important now than ever before. I think I've sufficiently laid the groundwork so I can start building something solid and functional (or at least partly so). In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter! Those yet to come will have a bit more going on, sorry if I disappoint anyone this time around!

Apologies if the ending is a bit sloppy. I wanted to finish it and get it posted for you lot! Didn't have the time to go over it with a fine-tooth comb. I'd also like to quickly note how humbled I am by all your wonderful reviews! I always love to hear from regular reviewers that have been with this story since the beginning. You have a much greater part than you think in which direction I take the story and the characters, and I can't say how much I appreciate it! As for new readers and new reviewers, I love having a fresh perspective! All of you are absolutely wonderful and it really validates the effort I put in!

Read, review, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

P.S. I recently stumbled across a song on Grey's Anatomy (not a show I watch regularly, so for you fans I'm sure you're familiar with this song already!) that I think is quite literally perfect for Hermione and Draco. Have a listen to Andrew Belle's _In My Veins_.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**  
**WHAT COULD STILL BE**

"In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."  
_T.S. Eliot_

For a moment she just stared at him with her arms folded across her chest. Then, much to his surprise, she started laughing. He shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't quite the reaction he had been expecting. He thought she might hit him, throw something at him maybe, and shout a bit more. But certainly not laugh.

"Hermione?"

Her laughter was empty and humourless. Her eyes, normally bright and warm, were now devoid of any light. She raked a hand through her hair and shook her head in disbelief.

"No," she said. "Absolutely not."

"I know it seems—"

"No," she interrupted. "You don't know!"

"You're upset," he said. It was an observation, not a question.

"Among other things," she snapped.

Hermione was confused, angry, frustrated, horrified, disbelieving, and in denial. She was a veritable cornucopia of competing emotions, none of which made it any easier to comprehend what he had just told her. He looked irritated by her admission which, in turn, irritated her. Why was _he_ bothered?

"Does that _surprise_ you?" she asked.

"No, but I can't understand why," he said. "You know about the dreams. He's told you what he sees at night."

"How did you know about that?"

"The Order thought I should know seeing as they're my memories."

Of course, she thought bitterly. There were many things she was asked not to be a part of. She'd been intentionally kept out of the loop by the rest of the Order, by her friends, on more than one occasion. Why should this be any different?

"He has never said a word about..."

She stopped herself. She couldn't bring herself to say it, the terrible "m" word.

"Just say it, Hermione!" he shouted. "Marriage! We're married, you and I. You're my wife. I'm your husband. Married. We are married."

"Just stop it!" she snapped. "We are not _married_."

A magical marriage is nothing like a muggle marriage. For many muggles marriage is temporary but it is treated as a serious commitment. It ends with divorce almost as easily as it was entered into: the division of assets and property and the cutting of all emotional ties. A magical marriage is a binding contract not afforded such an easy-out clause. Marriage is for life.

It wasn't that she refused to entertain the idea. She could but when she did she found it so laughably ludicrous, so completely and totally nonsensical, she rejected it. Draco would admit that it was a long shot, and an unlikely one at that, but he wouldn't admit it was wholly impossible. After all, it had happened once before. He had convinced her to marry him once.

They were by no means close friends. In fact, there was more animosity than common decency between them but as he remembered it, there was something they had that made them more than friends or enemies. They had that something that those particular relationships don't require: passion. From his dusty room on the top floor he could hear everything that transpired between the two of them, her and his younger self. All those arguments and spiteful insults meant nothing when they touched or kissed or spoke without callousness. Hate was nothing compared to what lay just beneath the surface. So why she immediately rejected the idea was a mystery to him. She wasn't that spectacularly unobservant, she had to have felt something. Then it dawned on him, something he hadn't even considered until now, something he had no reason to think of until then.

"You're not still holding out for that absentee idiot?"

Why else would she resist the idea so vehemently?

"He is not an idiot," she hissed.

Hermione could see his jaw clench. Although she didn't answer his question, that clearly wasn't what he wanted to hear.

"Are you in love with him?"

She glared at him. Only he would have the audacity to ask—to _demand_—something so intimate and only he was narcissistic enough to think she would just tell him. She considered it a small victory withholding information he wanted. It was only far, she thought, after everything he had put her through. His unique situation entitled him to insights and information no one else had, but her feelings were private. He didn't deserve to know and come hell or high water, she would do everything in her power to keep her small shred of privacy her own.

"That is none of your business."

Hermione heard the front door, the muffled sound breaking the unbearable tension. She shook her head, trying to dispel the tangle of thoughts bouncing about in the back of her mind. She couldn't be sure there was ever an appropriate time or place to be discussing potentially future nuptials with your potentially future husband, but she had a feeling that this was definitely not it. The throbbing pain in her temples seemed to say just that. She needed to be somewhere other than the small bedroom, anywhere other than with him. He didn't say anything or try to stop her when she left. She breezed past him and although she had no desire to see whoever was waiting downstairs, there was no where else for her to go. Grimmauld Place had become her rabbit hole much to her dismay.

As she walked downstairs she could hear voices and laughter, a reassuring sign that everything had gone well, or at least better than her night had turned out.

"You've got a right chunk missing there," George said, tossing a dishtowel to Draco as he walked into the kitchen.

"If you're not careful you'll end up looking like Mad-Eye," Fred said.

Draco glared at them, tilting his head back and gingerly pressing the soft cloth to the bridge of his nose.

"Alastor is very highly thought of," Mr. Weasley said, giving the twins a pointed look.

"Doesn't make him any easier on the eyes," Fred said.

Mr. Weasley just sighed and shook his head.

"It's a good thing we kept you around," George said, gesturing to Draco.

"Yeah," Fred said. "We show up and instead of bothering with us, all the Death Eaters try to kill you for stabbing them in the back. Brilliant!"

"Glad I could help," he said, though his humourless tone was anything but glad.

"Well, you do have their undivided attention," Bill said, walking into the room.

"Did the others get on alright?" Mr. Weasley asked.

Bill nodded. "The few that were injured went with Fleur to St. Mungo's. Mad-Eye took the rest to Ted and Andromeda's."

"And the Death Eaters?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Gone," Bill said.

"If the Death Eaters have taken such a keen interest in you, maybe it's best you keep out of sight for a while," Lupin said.

"Like hell," Draco said, tossing the bloody dishtowel in the sink.

"It's not like they're going to forget about him," Fred said.

"He's enemy number one," George said.

"Next to Harry, of course," Fred said.

"Alright, so enemy number two. Not quite as notorious but still very impressive," George said, giving Draco a thumbs up.

Draco looked anything but amused. In fact, he looked quite horrific. The nasty looking gouge on the bridge of his nose was deep enough to have reached the top of the nasal bone. The dishtowel had done a rubbish job of sopping up the blood. Instead, it had smeared blood along his nose and just under his eyes where the skin was beginning to bruise.

"I am not staying locking up here," Draco insisted. "That was not part of the deal."

"I know it wasn't what was initially agreed upon and I know it's hardly ideal, but after tonight I don't think there is much of a choice. All of this attention is putting the lives of others at risk, Order members in particular. I'm afraid their won't just be targeting muggles and muggleborns after this," Lupin said.

"That's not my fault," Draco said.

"Well, you did sort of kill Dolohov," George said.

"Shut up," Draco snapped.

"No one is saying it is," Lupin said, raising a brow at the twins. "But I think this is in everyone's best interest."

"Really?" Draco asked, glaring at the weatherworn wizard. "My best interest as well?"

"You are not just yourself, you are a part of the Order and you should start to think of yourself as such," Lupin said.

He wanted to make it clear that this was not up for debate and there was no room for argument. He had no desire to be the bad guy and he certainly didn't want to make anyone do something that they didn't want, but this was an exceptional circumstance. He would never be Draco's friend, that much he was sure of. He wanted to be on the same side as the difficult young man but Draco put up a fight at every turn, resisting any attempt to be considered a peer, a friend, a member of the Order. If he couldn't convince him as a friend to back down, to pick his battles wisely—not only for his own sake but for that of others as well—then he could at least try to appeal to reason.

"I'm sorry," Lupin sighed. "But I can think of no other solution."

"There is something else we could do," Hermione said, finally stepping out of the shadowy hallway and into the kitchen.

Draco looked up as she came in. Knowing what she did, she couldn't help but look at him with an anxious expression. Her eyes shifted from him to others in the room. She couldn't hold his gaze and when she did look at him, her eyes were wide and guarded. For reasons he couldn't fathom, she looked _frightened_ when she looked at him.

"We could fake his death," she said, looking to the others in the room as she spoke.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye, standing at the other end of the room with his arms folded across his chest, frowning and watching her intently. Her suggestion didn't phase him because his mind was already engaged. As soon as she'd walked in he knew something was wrong. Unfortunately for her, he was well versed in her mannerisms and highly perceptive. He could read her like a book and right now it was telling him something was terribly wrong. When he'd left her, everything was fine. She had made it clear now that everything was certainly not fine.

"Right," Draco said. "And what good would that do me? I'd be trapped here _indefinitely_, not just temporarily. A dead man can't exactly walk, can he?"

"Well..." Fred started.

"Say one more word and I will make sure you never speak again," Draco snapped.

"Now, now," Mr. Weasley said. "Let's all try to keep a level head."

"It's a viable option," Lupin said.

"You could still help the Order, even from Grimmauld Place," Bill said.

"Right," Mr. Weasley said. "Hermione does it all the time."

He said it with a proud look of fatherly pride which irked Draco. How could they call themselves her friends, her family, and be that spectacularly unaware of how truly unhappy she was? It was a sad day when the person she hardly knew, knew more about her than her closest friends.

"And she's miserable," Draco said. "But you lot are so thick you can't see that."

Everyone looked at Hermione with varying expressions of discomfort and concern. She shook her head, trying to dispel the awkward silence which had fallen in the room.

"I'm not," she said. "Really, I'm fine."

She wasn't even a convincing liar. How they believed that rubbish was beyond him.

"We don't need to make a decision tonight," Lupin said, trying to play referee.

"Perfect," Draco said, heading toward the door. "Because I have no intention of agreeing to either of your solutions."

He brushed past Hermione without so much as a glance in her direction. He made it clear he was not in favour of her suggestion and that he didn't appreciate her unexplained change in demeanor. Just when he thought he'd taken one step forward, away from the childish nonsense and mind games, she'd taken two steps back for the both of them.

They all heard him head up the stairs and the room instantly felt calmer without his volatile presence.

"Well," Fred said. "That went well."

"About as good as could be expected," Bill said. "I mean, you can't blame him for not wanting to be cooped up here."

"He could at least make an effort," George said. "Y'know, not to be such a prat."

"Maybe if you two didn't provoke him," Bill said.

"Exactly," Mr. Weasley said.

The clock in the hallway chimed ten o'clock.

"Good lord, is that the time?" Mr. Weasley asked to no one in particular. "We should be getting on. Your mother will no doubt be up worrying herself sick."

"I should go check on Fleur," Bill said.

Everyone exchanged goodbyes as they headed outside, beyond the crumbling garden wall in front of Grimmauld Place. Lupin stopped at the door, taking the time to button his shabby wool coat.

"Are you alright?" he asked, clearly bothered by what Draco had said and not entirely convinced by her empty reassurances.

"Yes," she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "A little stressed..."

"Which is understandable," he said.

Hermione smiled. "See? Completely fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, now go home and see your wife," she said, shooing him out the door.

"Alright," he said. "Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight," she said, closing the door behind him.

Once she heard the faint _pop_ of apparition, she started up the stairs. Was it too much to ask for an uneventful night and a restful sleep? The warm light spilling out from the study and onto the landing was enough to answer her question: of course it was too much to ask for, how silly of her to think otherwise.

Draco was standing in front of the fire, leaning against the tall mantle to better see the damage that had been done to his face in the burnished antique mirror on the wall. He gingerly touched the cartilage under the cut, catching her reflection in the mirror as she stood in the doorway.

"So what have I done this time?" he asked, brushing some flakes of dried blood out from under his eyes.

"Nothing," she said.

He could tell she was lying. It was definitely something but whatever it was, she was making it a point to keep it to herself.

"Think I'm going to believe that like the rest of them did?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't."

"It's late, I'm tired, and I've just spent the night having my face carved up," he said, turning to look at her. "Don't insult my intelligence."

"How is it that when there's something wrong you always find a way to make it about yourself?"

"So you were lying to me just then. There is something wrong."

"What does it matter?" she asked.

"I want to know what I've done to piss you off so thoroughly."

"I am not pissed off," she insisted.

"No? The notion of killing me just popped into your head, then?"

"It was just an idea!"

"That came to you in all of five minutes?"

"I wasn't sitting around plotting your death if that's what you're getting at," she said. "The concept of killing another human being doesn't come as easily to everyone as it does to you."

She could see his jaw clench from across the room. It really wasn't fair of her to take out her frustration on him. Technically, he'd done absolutely nothing wrong. It was just his presence that was putting her off and he couldn't very well help that.

"I doubt that," he said.

"It was a harmless suggestion. I don't _actually_ want you to die. "

"So why aren't you happy to see me? Or at least relieved?" he asked.

Hermione scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. "You are such a narcissistic prat."

"I walked out that door and you were about to shed some bloody crocodile tears and now you'll barely look at me. When you do manage to glance in my direction you look at me like I'm a _disease_."

"I did not cry," she said with haughty indignation.

"No, but that wasn't really the point," he said, turning back to the mirror.

He'd found a way to get what he wanted to know out of her without having her admit it. She would never have told him the whole truth, what had transpired between her and the other, older Draco while he was away. How could she? What would she say? 'The reason I can't look at you is because I've found out you're going to be my husband some day and I don't quite know if I can accept that.' It was hardly believable, not the slightest bit plausible. With his little test, he'd managed to find out what she was lying to him and to everyone else about. He had hoped she would've denied the latter bit about him, but she didn't. Whatever was wrong it clearly had something to do with him. She wouldn't look at him and she couldn't even come up with an excuse for why that was. That much he should've known, though. She was a terrible liar.

Hermione couldn't say it but he had it wrong. He wasn't a disease. There was nothing wrong with him aside from some deep-rooted rage issues and a perpetual mistrust of others. Those were qualities she had unwittingly come to terms with. Her uneasiness and her inability to look him in the eye had nothing to do with him per say. It was her. She had to figure out what to do with what she'd just found out. How to explain this to him without giving herself or his future self away was another matter entirely.

"I didn't come to argue," she said.

"Well, you have failed spectacularly."

"I came to see if you were alright," she said, losing her patience with him.

"And you've done just that so you can be on your way."

That was a dismissal if she'd ever heard one.

"Wait," he said, turning to face her. "Don't forget this."

He tossed his wand to her rather forcefully. It hit her in the chest and fell to the floor before she could catch it.

"Don't you want to clean yourself up?" she asked, bending down to pick up his wand. She wasn't even going to ask for it back. She trusted him enough to know he wouldn't kill her in her sleep. Either he didn't care or this gesture was one of spite. Whatever the reason, Draco wanted to make it perfectly clear her distant behaviour toward him was not insignificant.

"I don't need it," he said.

"Don't be difficult," she sighed. "Just take it."

"No."

"If you don't use magic it won't heal properly!"

"It's wasn't done with magic."

"What?" she asked.

"You heard me," he said.

"What happened?"

"Seems magic doesn't provide the same sort of satisfaction as cutting someone up with a blade does."

"They used knives?" she asked. It was hard for her to wrap her head around. Death Eaters with muggle weapons.

"No, they used spoons."

"Would you be serious for just one moment?"

"I would if you'd stop being so thick."

"Who was it?"

"I'm sure you'll appreciate the poetic irony," he said. "It was Bellatrix."

"Bellatrix?"

"Am I speaking _English_? Yes, Bellatrix."

"And all of this has to do with Dolohov?" she said, gesturing to his face.

"I don't think she needs a reason but that's not to say I haven't given her one."

"This seems awfully personal, though."

"Yes, well it's not just that I'm a traitor. I didn't just fall in with the Order and kill Dolohov, I embarrassed the family name and there's nothing Purebloods value more than their name."

"Come here," she said, walking over to him. "Let me see."

"No, it's fine."

"Now you're insulting my intelligence," she said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to face her. It wasn't a particularly long gash but it was wide and deep, settled in the small dip at the top of his nose. "It's not fine. It looks terrible."

"I wasn't going to say anything about your horrific hair but—"

"If you hold still there won't be a scar."

"In that case, leave it."

"You want another scar on your face?" she asked, raising a doubtful brow.

"Why not?"

Hermione laughed harshly.

"You're far too vain for that."

"I haven't heard you complain before."

"Maybe it you took as much pride in your appearance as you did in your ability to cast a simple protection spell, I wouldn't be mending bones and healing wounds for you every week," she snapped.

"What can I say," he said, his voice sickeningly sweet and oozing with sarcasm. "Having bones snapped back into place feels delightful. I would hate to miss out on that, not to mention your complete lack of finesse and rudimentary healing abilities."

"If I hadn't fixed those broken ribs you'd be walking with a hideous hunch," she snapped. "So if I were you I'd show a little more gratitude."

"I didn't ask for your help," he said, pulling his face away from her.

"_Episkey_."

She looked at him with a smug expression of self-satisfaction as the wound closed itself up, leaving a fresh pink scar in its wake. It was the exact shape and size she expected it to be, the same one on the face of his older self.

"I'm not saying thank you."

"You're a selfish, unappreciative git!"

"Better than a self-righteous shrew!"

"Here," she said, shoving his wand at him. "You can have this so long as you don't kill anyone with it. Think you can manage?"

"I can't make any promises."

She turned swiftly on her heel and started toward the door.

"Oh," she said, stopping on the landing and turning to face him. "And don't even think about spending the night."

"Wasn't planning on it!" he shouted after her.

As soon as she'd turned the corner Draco blindly reached for the closest object. Shouting obscenities, he hurled the glass paperweight across the room. When it his the opposite wall it exploded, sending shards of broken glass in every direction. It did little to dampen his temper, though.

* * *

Hermione had done everything in her power to clear her mind and calm herself down. She'd taken a long, hot shower and locked herself in her room. The warmth and the quiet didn't help. She tried to decipher some of Owle Bullock's journal but even with her runes dictionary, she couldn't make sense of the symbols on the page. The entire journal might as well have been written in gibberish. Maybe Bullock was just a madman after all. There was a good chance she wouldn't find anything useful in his journal. That wouldn't stop her from trying again. If need be, she'd go through it over and over again until she found something useful. If insanity is the repetition of the same action with the expectation of different results, Hermione was not only desperate but perhaps a little crazy as well. At this point, they needed some good news concerning Horcruxes. Everything they'd done so far and everything they had learned was far from encouraging. They still had so far to go with so little time.

One floor down, Draco was in the study, turning the Foe-Glass Mad-Eye had given him over and over again in his hand. He'd decided there were only two plausible explanations for Hermione's erratic behaviour: she had finally gone completely mental or something had happened when he was gone. Although he asked, he was sure now he had done nothing to cause her sudden mood swing. How could he? He wasn't even in London at the time. It was physically impossible. Something had happened to her in his short absence. Maybe she'd received an upsetting owl about her idiot friends or her parents. Maybe she'd read the Prophet or listened to Potterwatch. The death toll was enough to put anyone in a foul mood and the list of missing was dismal to say the least. Or maybe she did this to herself, got some ridiculous notion in her head about them and let it turn her into some emotionally unstable nutter. That was probably the more likely scenario. If there was anything she could be faulted on it was her absolute insistence on over-thinking and over-analyzing everything. If he bloody well asked her if she wanted tea she'd probably figure he was asking her to marry him or something equally ridiculous. Whatever was going on with her, he was at a disadvantage. Not only was he completely in the dark about what was bothering her but all the anger and hatred she bottled up was focussed entirely on him.

He glanced down at the small object in his hand. The mirror-like surface of the Foe-Glass was smooth and cool to the touch. It still mystified him why Mad-Eye of all people had taken an interest in him let alone looked out for him. Draco was sure the batty old wizard was waiting for a reason to chuck him in Azkaban. For whatever reason, he'd found a strange albeit welcome ally in the ex Auror. Draco watched the indistinct shadows and shapes of all his many enemies moving in the murky background. He couldn't see their faces clearly but he knew who they were. A ghostly figure ambling in the foreground caught his attention, though. The face was almost imperceptible as it turned away and faded into the swirling grey. Despite the lack of clarity, the blurred features seemed terribly familiar: strong slope of the nose, square jaw, lips pulled into a perpetually unpleasant expression, eyebrows furrowed. The scowl...it was his. For a moment, Draco could swear that he saw his own reflection in the Foe-Glass.

That was not possible. It wasn't a mirror, he couldn't have possibly seen his own reflection. It showed his enemies, it showed people harbouring ill will, and yet, the Foe-Glass didn't lie. It shouldn't have been showing him himself. That wasn't to say his eyes weren't deceiving him, though. It had been a long, tiresome day. He'd been physically beaten by a group of vindictive Death Eaters, confined to Grimmauld Place by the Order, and finally, mentally berated by a tedious argument with Granger. Not only was his head aching but, despite a good night's sleep the night before, he was exhausted. Rubbing his tired eyes, Draco slid the small object across the coffee table.

"Great," he murmured. "I really am going mental." It was just one more thing he didn't want to think about. Resigning himself to a fitful attempt at sleep, Draco climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

The landing was dark. Hermione's door was closed and there was no light on. Grimmauld Place was completely silent with the exception of the hollow _tick tock_ of the ancient grandfather clock downstairs. He walked into his room, clicking the door shut behind him and peeling his clothes off. The winter chill seemed to seep through the walls, clinging to the warped floorboards and hanging in the air. Draco pulled on a ratty pair of joggers and threw on a jumper to ward off the cold. He didn't bother to turn down the sheets but laid on top of them, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come easily for him and when it did he would undoubtedly be plagued by unwanted dreams about the one person he really didn't want to think about. Regardless, he closed his eyes and waited.

She was standing in the ruined Entrance Hall at Hogwarts, wand at the ready. Her dark eyes were fixed intently on something in front of her. She had a split lip and a thin cut on her cheekbone. There were pieces the Grand Staircase scattered about the stone floor, paintings ripped off the wall and crushed by the rubble. The suits of armor that once flanked the grand oak doors leading to the Great Hall were missing. The doors too had been torn of their iron hinges and there was splintered pieces of wood everywhere.

_Draco could suddenly hear a terrible noise behind him as the scene came into focus. There were shouts and screams of pain, people yelling at one another, and explosions coming from the Great Hall. His heart was racing and his wand hand was shaking, partly due to the surge of adrenaline rushing through his system. That wasn't all, though. His breathing was erratic and rapid, his thoughts were unfocused, and his throat felt like it was closing up. He recognized the symptoms of this peculiar ailment. It had been a long, long time since he'd felt it but he was certain of what it was: _fear_. He couldn't quite figure out why he was afraid. He had no idea what was happening, why they were at Hogwarts, why there were people rushing past them and into the Great Hall, why there were curses flying around them. He'd woken up in the middle of a battle he couldn't understand._

_A hooded figure rushed toward them from the courtyard. Draco fired the Killing Curse and in a flash of green light the man fell to the ground, motionless, dead. Hermione hurled a curse at another figure racing down the stairs, catching the hooded man in the knee. He crumpled like paper and let out a shriek of pain. He desperately pawed at his legs as though they were on fire. Draco hit him with a curse that knocked him unconscious. It was only then he recognized the black cloaks. They were Death Eaters._

_"Where's Potter?" he asked._

_"Ravenclaw Tower," she said, breathless and panicked._

_Hermione looked at him with wide, frantic eyes. She too had a reason to be afraid but for some reason, Draco didn't think their reasons were the same. She was worried about Potter and—no doubt—Weasley. Even in the midst of the fighting, Draco felt nothing more than irritation and anger toward them._

_"WATCH IT!"_

_The shout came from the courtyard followed by an explosion that ripped through the castle wall. A shower of rubble and stone shrapnel rained down on them, bruising skin and tearing clothing. In the chaos she'd reached out for him and he instinctively grabbed her upper arm. Touch was enough to know where she was in the haze of dust swept up by the explosion, enough to ease his frantic mind. She was there, grasping at the front of his shirt, coughing as she tried to breath in the polluted air._

_He grabbed her face and pulled her close. Her hair was covered in a thick layer of dust but she was otherwise unscathed. There was a violent ringing in his ears._

_"Are you alright?" he asked, vaguely aware he had to shout to hear his own voice._

_When she nodded her head the sinking feeling in his stomach dissipated. Whatever was going on around them wasn't what incited his fear. It was her. She was the reason he was so afraid. He cared more for her sake than he did his own._

_"I love you," he said, the words rushing out in a single breath._

_He took a deep, rattling breath and wiped away the filth under her eye with a rough sweep of his thumb. Her mouth opened slightly in surprise. He pressed a rough kiss to her lips._

Draco started, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. He laid back down, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. The dream had done nothing to alleviate the pain in his head, instead magnifying it tenfold. He rolled over on his side, breathing deeply and putting the horrific scene out of his mind. When his tense muscles relaxed and he slowly opened his eyes, he could make out the narrow frame of his door in the dark. He didn't know how long he'd actually slept. It couldn't been hours but in all likelihood it had been much shorter than that. It felt like nothing more than a few minutes and restless minutes at that. He stared at the door in front of him, opened just a crack. He couldn't see anything of the dark landing beyond the door but he knew Hermione's room was there, just a few steps away.

All it took was one night to put one pesky little thought in his head, the thought that maybe the reason he'd slept soundly that night was because of her. He didn't want to entertain such a ridiculous notion for fear that he might actually need someone, that he might dependent on another person. He rolled over on the small bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He stared at wall instead and tried to forget he'd ever let such a thought tempt him. His aching, tired body did not forget, though. While his mind vehemently rejected the desire for comfort and warmth, his body yearned for them. All it took was one night and now he couldn't maintain the distance that he had so carefully created. For reasons he didn't want to dwell on, he was now angry at her for being distant and withdrawn. Distance was what he wanted...or what he thought he wanted.

"Fuck," he hissed, angrily getting to his feet.

His steps were almost reluctant as he slipped out of his room and crossed the landing. It was only a few steps but it felt like miles.

Hermione lay awake. As much as she tried, she couldn't sleep, not after everything that happened that day. She listened to Draco shifting restlessly in his bed across the hall, the old metal frame straining under each movement. When it stopped, she heard his door open, heard the creaking of warped floorboards. Her door opened quietly and she propped herself up on her elbows. He stood in the doorway and he looked absolutely miserable. His hair, unruly from tossing and turning, stuck up in all directions. Even in the dark she could make out the angry scowl on his face. His brows were furrowed and his jaw clenched. Just standing there looked painful, like it required all the self-control he possessed.

Clearly she was waiting for something. She was just watching him. There was no trace of humour in her expression but Draco was sure she was enjoying his discomfort and embarrassment. How could she not? She'd won but she didn't gloat or lord it over him, sparing him the embarrassment. Although he'd never say it, her inability to be as petty as him, to be better, was something he found infinitely attractive. She was many things that he could never be. He told himself that the only reason he was there, with all his cards on the table so to speak, was that he was desperate. It made it much easier to deny the much more frightening reality in front of him: he wanted to be there. In true Malfoy fashion, he'd spend eternity in the many circles of Dante's hell to which he undoubtedly belonged before he'd ever admit to such a personal weakness as the need for intimacy.

"I'm still not saying thank you."

Hermione expected nothing less. She reached across the bed and pulled down the covers on the other side of the bed, his side of the bed. Draco closed the door behind him and without a word, without a glance in her direction, got into bed and closed his eyes. He didn't relax and his expression remained the same. He looked angry but the lines along his forehead were uneasy lines. They were not the hard, cruel lines of resentment. He wasn't just angry, he was bothered by something.

Hermione laid back down. With her back to him she asked, "Are you going to tell me what the dream was about?"

"No."

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Coming Home

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I know it's been a while but 'tis the season for law school applications (which I officially submitted on Thursday, thank you very much!). I also have midterms and essays to study for, and early Christmas shoppers to contend with at work. I've basically been living in the library and I drink about eight cups of coffee a day now. Needless to say, things have been a little hectic. I'm hoping it'll slow down a bit so I can work on this story, but I can't guarantee anything. I still have grad school applications to think of.

I haven't abandoned this story, though! And I just want to say how much I appreciate all of the wonderful reviews and thank you for your inhuman amount of patience. I know it's hard to stick with a story when the author doesn't update regularly, but for those of you who have, I hope this chapter serves as a reward!

Some notes on the chapter: it's relatively short but there's a lot going on in it. The next few chapters will have a lot of actions sequences, they will be very plot based, so they will definitely be longer. This is just the preamble to excitement that will come next! Though if I do say so myself, this is a pretty exciting chapter.

I hope you like it! Don't be afraid to let me know what you think. I love to hear from you.

Read and review!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**  
**COMING HOME**

"Home is anywhere that you know all your friends and all your enemies."  
_Orson Scott Card_

Draco watched dust swirling in the deceptively warm morning light spilling into the room and listened to Hermione's quiet breathing. It was steady and rhythmic, untroubled and unbothered. In the night she had slowly drifted from the far side of the bed towards him. Despite the comfort of having her close, he'd barely slept a wink. All night and into the morning, all he could think about were those three unholy words. He'd never uttered them in his life, not to his mother and certainly not to his father. Draco didn't even know what those words meant. He sat up with the sunrise, resting against the headboard as his mind fixed itself on his rather disturbing dream. Hermione lay beside him, arm tucked under her pillow, face relaxed. Just beyond the drapes he could make out the grey pallor of the winter sky and the fresh snow-capped mansard roofs of nearby houses. Grimmauld Place was by no means a beautiful street. It was one of many fading, forgotten streets in a low-income suburb of London. But on mornings like this, while everyone was asleep in their beds and there was a fresh blanket of snow covering the squalor and neglect, it looked like a welcome and inviting place.

London had left behind the perpetual damp that was typical of early winter. The snowflakes were full and light, like something from a postcard, just in time for the holiday season. Hermione's soft breathing was joined by the distant happy laughter and shouts of muggle children. Despite the picturesque winter scene outside and the warm light illuminating the room, the winter cold had crept through the house during the night. He absently reached over and pulled the covers up over Hermione, still fast asleep.

The quiet and solitude did not last long but he didn't expect it would. Grimmauld Place had more visitors than the bloody British Museum. He heard the faint sound of the front door. Hermione stirred but didn't wake, leaving him with the daunting task of seeing whoever was downstairs at this ungodly hour. Time really meant nothing to the Order. Any hour was an appropriate hour to discuss business or to bring bad news. Sometimes it made him yearn for the decorum of his privileged life. At least then everything was timed to perfection: breakfast, tea, visiting hours. He reluctantly threw off the covers and quietly made his way downstairs. The floor was cold against his bare feet. As he reached the landing above the entrance way he could make out hushed voices coming from the kitchen. Although he didn't recognize the voices, he was sure there were two. The bottom stair let out a horrible creak as he came to the bottom.

"Hermione?"

There was no mistaking that voice or the unwelcome shock of red hair as he rounded the corner.

"_You_!"

Before Draco could say anything, a fist collided with his face. He heard the crunch of his nose breaking just before the rush of pain and the white spots overwhelming his vision. Draco stumbled back, knocking over the horrid troll-leg umbrella stand. Then the foul screeching of Mrs. Black's portrait started.

"BLOOD TRAITORS AND FILTH!" she shrieked.

Draco's hand immediately went to his face, sitting under his chin to catch the blood dribbling down his face.

"FUCK!" Draco snarled.

"SCUM!" Mrs. Black continued.

"Ron!" Harry said, restraining the livid redhead.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Ron asked.

"Think you could've asked that before you broke my fucking nose?" Draco snapped.

"MUDBLOODS AND HALF-BREEDS IN THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK!"

Draco could just hear the sound of someone rushing down the stairs over the screaming. Hermione rounded the corner and her sleepy, worried expression turned to one of bewilderment.

"_What_ is going on here?" she asked, looking from Harry and Ron to Draco.

"What is he doing here?" Ron asked.

"THE IMPUDENCE!" the portrait screeched.

"I live here," Draco spat.

"Like hell you do!"

"What happened?" Hermione asked, hurrying over to Draco.

Why she even bothered to fix him up in the first place was beyond her. Draco was a magnet for trouble, worse than Harry even. He had his head tipped back, trying to stop the flow of blood from his nose, but she grabbed his chin and pulled him closer to get a better look.

"What do you think?" Draco asked in a irate, clipped manner.

"HORRIBLE FILTH!" Mrs. Black wailed.

"You did this?" she asked, turning to Ron with a disapproving look.

Ron said nothing in his defense but continued to seethe, his jaw clenched as he glared at Draco, the last person he expected—or wanted to see—at Grimmauld Place.

Draco pried his face from her grasp, glaring at Ron.

"You'll get yours, Weasley," Draco threatened, gesturing at him with a bloody hand.

"Draco," Hermione said, glaring at him.

He was just making a bad situation worse.

"_Draco_?" Ron said, a look of disgust clearly painted on his face.

Apparently, so was she.

"FILTHY DREGS OF SOCIETY! A STAIN ON THE NAME OF BLACK!"

"What are you two doing here?" Hermione asked, looking at the weatherworn pair of them.

"Aren't you glad to see us?" Harry asked, desperately trying to dissolve some of the explosive tension.

"Of course I am," she said.

"Did you get our letter?" Ron asked. "About Christmas?"

"If you can call it a letter," she said.

"You could've told us then," Ron said. "About him."

"And spoil the fun?" Draco asked bitterly.

"HOW DARE YOU STEP FOOT IN THIS HOUSE! FILTH!"

Draco turned and violently wrenched the curtains shut over Mrs. Black's portrait, quieting the woman's deranged screeching.

Everyone except for Ron relaxed a bit when the obscenities stopped. Hermione let out a sigh of relief. This wasn't quite how she pictured their homecoming but she was glad to see them, happier than she'd been in a long while.

"I'm glad you're alright," she said, smiling at the pair of them.

Draco watched as they exchanged hugs. The spectacle was grotesque in its excessive emotional outpouring. Hermione's eyes lit up in a way he had never seen before. It wasn't the excitement he occasionally saw in them and it was far from the flat, dullness of boredom that usually darkened her eyes. Her eyes were bright and warm. She was happy. It irritated him that Potter and Weasley had any part in making her happy. They left her here, all but abandoned her. She was virtually alone until he came. Her happiness shouldn't have depended so thoroughly on the two people that were supposed to have her best interests at heart. He'd been the one here picking up the pieces they'd left behind, dealing with a less-than Granger. She had lost her spark because of them and just like that, after months, they show up on the doorstep, and it's suddenly back. Though he'd never admit it, it made him horribly jealous that he was not able to make her as happy as they made her.

Hermione could think of no less than a hundred things she wanted to ask them about their search for Horcruxes, about any and all news they'd heard, about people they'd come across, but Harry and Ron looked past Hermione to Draco, still waiting for answers.

"What is he doing here?" Ron asked again.

Draco had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Dumber than a doorpost, he was.

"Are you deaf?" Draco asked, his temper now getting the better of him. "I said I live here."

"You think I'm going to believe anything you have to say?" Ron spat. "You're a Death Eater!"

"That's enough," Hermione said, glaring at the both of them. "He's telling the truth, he _is_ staying here."

Ron opened his mouth to object to this but Hermione continued.

"He's a member of the Order."

* * *

Harry and Ron sat opposite Draco at the kitchen table. Though they had all promised to be as civil as possible, Draco felt like he was on trail. Weasley was glaring at him, fighting off the urge to lunge across the table and beat him senseless no doubt, while Potter tried to look stern and judicial. Like Ron, he only trusted Draco about as far as he could throw him. For Hermione's benefit, though, he was trying to remain calm and reasonable. Hermione stood at the stove, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil and watching them carefully.

"You agreed to this?" Ron asked, looking at Hermione.

"It was her idea," Draco said.

Ron's face paled leaving Draco with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. If only Weasley knew whose bed he shared every night. That might knock him off his high horse. Ron turned his interrogation on Hermione.

"This is Harry's house," Ron said, an angry flush creeping along his neck. "Sirius left it to Harry after _his_ aunt murdered him."

He shot a pointed look at Draco.

"And you decided it was okay to let him stay here?" Ron finished.

"_We_ decided," Hermione said. "We held a meeting and the Order came to an agreement that this was the best place for him."

"You didn't even ask us," Ron said.

"How was I to do that? Send an owl? Maybe I should've included the address, lead them right to the only safe place we have left."

"Exactly. The _only_ one and you let a Death Eater in," Ron said.

"We agreed we weren't going to point fingers or make accusations," Harry interrupted.

"Come on, Harry," Ron said, both frustrated and exasperated. "You're not okay with this, are you? I mean, his aunt _murdered_ Sirius. He's one of them!"

"I'm sure you have something to say," Draco said, looking at Harry who'd been oddly quiet thus far. "I know you don't like this any more than I do."

"You're right," Harry said. "I don't."

"Then get rid of him." Ron said.

"Alright," Hermione said, slamming the tea tray on the table.

"Hermione?" Harry asked.

"I know I agreed to be quiet and let you sort this out amongst yourselves, but I will not let you make any decisions based on Ronald's idiocy. Yes, Draco has done terrible things. Everyone agrees that he is horrid and unbearable, and I can assure you he has few friends in the Order. Most of them wanted to hand him over to Voldemort the moment he stepped foot in this house. But you should know better than anyone what he's done to help us. He all but saved you at Malfoy Manor! He's also agreed to get us into the Lestrange vault, to get the cup and destroy it," she said.

"And what if it's a trap?" Ron asked.

"Why are you so certain he's a Death Eater?" Hermione asked.

"He has the Dark Mark, Hermione!" Ron shouted. "It's for life. You don't just back out of it."

"You are impossible!" she shouted.

"Stop it, Hermione," Draco said.

She tore her eyes away from Ron's frustrated expression and looked at Draco. He didn't say anything but his expression implored her to calm down, to not get involved. This wasn't something she needed to worry about. He could handle himself. She knew this but she was letting her emotions get the better of her. He wanted to think it was her feelings for him that made her come to his defense but it could very well have been something else: her surprise at having Potter and Weasley back in her life or her anger at having them leave her. It could even be her incessant need to help the unfortunate, like her crusade to free the house elves for example. Whatever the reason, he didn't want her to complicate her relationship with either of them. As much as he disliked them, they were important to her and he didn't want to be responsible for burning that bridge.

Harry watched the exchange between Hermione and Draco with a curious expression.

Hermione sighed in resignation and left the three of them in the kitchen. She went straight up to study, almost shaking out of irritation. If only Harry and Ron could know the truth. She couldn't say it then but Draco had done so much more than that. The older Draco had been just as invaluable. He had, in every way, shown that he was a part of the Order. Though his motives were much more personal and less for the common good, the goal was the same. There was little else he could give to the Order with the exception of his life. If the older Draco had told her the truth about the night he was sent back in time, then he was—or would be—prepared to do that.

Rounding the corner she expected to see him, the older Draco. But the room was empty and cold, and only embers glowed in the fireplace. The heavy drapes were still pulled shut, blocking out most of the early morning light. She leaned against the arm of the couch and tried to imagine how she was going to deal with everything that was going on: the search for the remaining Horcruxes, juggling two Dracos as well as Harry and Ron. Grimmauld Place was full and there was no margin for error. From here on out she'd be walking on eggshells. Merlin forbid something happened and the truth about everything came out. It would be disastrous.

Back downstairs the three of them sat in an uncomfortable silence. There was no denying the truth in what Hermione had said. Draco had been of use thus far but it did little to convince Ron and even less to quell Harry's troubled mind.

Harry remembered that he still had Draco's wand after what Hermione had said about the Manor.

"I should probably return this to you," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling Draco's wand out.

As much as Draco longed to have his wand back, to stop having to fight every urge and inclination of Dolohov's wand, he knew Harry wouldn't be able to handle it any better than he could. Potter was far too righteous to use a wand imbued with dark magic and covered in the blood of so many innocent people, magic and muggle alike.

"Keep it," Draco said, taking out Dolohov's gnarled and twisted wand. "I've got one."

"Whose is that?" Ron asked.

"Antonin Dolohov's," Draco said.

"And you have it—" Ron started, pretty sure of what would come next.

"Because I killed him, Weasley."

There wasn't a flicker of remorse in his eyes as he said it.

"We heard that he was dead," Harry said.

"Didn't know it was you," Ron said. "Though I can't say I'm surprised."

Draco's jaw clenched and he turned his glare on Ron.

"How much do you know about Horcruxes?" Harry interrupted, stopping the fight before it began.

"More than you," Draco said without skipping a beat.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

Hermione looked over her shoulder and saw Draco leaning in the doorway.

"There's nothing wrong."

"You're sitting in the dark," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"I was just tidying up," she said, walking over to the nearest window and pulling open the heavy drapes.

"What's going on?" he asked again. "Is it Potter and Weasley?"

"I told you, there is nothing wrong," she said, re-shelving some of the books strewn across her desk.

"I know you want us to get along, but I can't. Not with them."

Hermione laughed but there was no humor in it.

"Oh, I know. You don't need to tell me that."

"Just tell me what's going on," he said, trying to keep his temper under wraps. "There must be something because you've been a right pain in the arse lately. More so than usual."

"Oh!" she shouted, slamming the books on the table. That was the last straw. "Oh, okay! Alright! _You_ are what is wrong. Why must you provoke them? Why do you have to make a bad situation worse?"

"You're blaming me for what happened downstairs?" Draco snapped. "Look at my face!"

He gestured angrily to the purple bruises forming under his eyes and the dried flecks of blood under his nose.

"You think I provoked him? I came down the stairs and he punched me in the face!" Draco continued.

"You're a lot of things, but innocent is not one of them" she said.

"Go on," he said, gesturing for her to continue. "Just say what you want to say. I'm sense a bit of hostility."

"Spot on," she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. "Not just a pretty face."

"Well you haven't had a problem sharing a bed with this pretty face."

"Are you out of your mind?" she hissed. "Keep your voice down!"

"Don't want Potter and Weasley to find out their beloved Granger isn't as infallible as they thought."

"And you would love that, wouldn't you?"

"Watching Weasley's little heart explode? Yes, I would."

"You're despicable."

"You don't need to tell me that," he said, echoing her earlier words.

"Why can't you just try to be civil?"

"Well, like you, Potter and Weasley think I'm despicable. They also think I'm a Death Eater who should be locked away. I don't have to play nice with people who want to see my soul sucked out of my body by a Dementor."

"You're different with them. You just refuse to be good."

"That's because I'm not," Draco said.

"You are," she said. "I've seen it."

"Which am I? Good or despicable?"

"I just said that because I was—because I am angry with you."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut and letting out an angry sigh.

"Do you know how maddening you are?" he asked. "Do you? Being here has done nothing but screw with my mind. I have people judging me, waiting for me to fail, hoping that I will so they can get rid of me. But then there's you. You've come up with this ridiculous idea that everything is nice and good in this wretched house but it's not. Everything is so far from okay. I am not some broken person you can just fix up, we are not playing house, and whatever this...this thing is, it's not healthy. You've deluded yourself and what's worse is that I've started to believe it, all of it, and now they're here and you're pushing me away like this is my fault."

"I am not pushing you away," she said. "Didn't you hear me downstairs? I told them—"

"This isn't about them. I could care less what you tell them or what they think about me. This is about you."

"There's nothing wrong with me! Now please stop badgering me about it!" she shouted.

Hermione shook her head and started toward the stairs. She had too much to worry about with a full house. She didn't this, not right now. Not with the words "you're my wife" playing on a loop in her head.

"You're hiding something."

"I'm entitled to some privacy," she snapped.

"It's about me, isn't it?"

Hermione froze. She turned to look at him, scrambling for a blasé reply to conceal any dread or anxiety showing in her features. "Contrary to what you may believe, the world does not revolve around you."

"Hermione?"

The quiet voice came from around the corner. Hermione visibly relaxed when Harry appeared in the doorway.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, looking between Hermione and Draco with a stern expression.

Draco stood on one side of the room, irate and tense. Hermione's stood near the door. Her face was flushed from their argument. When Harry entered Draco let out a quiet sound of disbelief and shook his head. Of course, he thought bitterly. Her knight in shining bloody armor.

"I heard shouting," Harry continued, his gaze fixed on Draco.

Draco raked a hand through his hair and glared at Harry.

"Everything's fine. Just a small disagreement," Hermione said.

"About what?" Harry asked.

"That's none of your business," Draco said.

"Actually, it is. This is my house."

"How could I forget?"

Hermione saw Harry tense up at Draco's snide remark and put a calming hand on his arm. Clearly, there would be no civilized conversation between them. She'd have to be there whenever they were in the same room, to play referee if not to intervene.

"Why don't we go back downstairs and have something to eat?"

"Fine," Harry said.

Draco sat down in the nearest chair as they disappeared around the corner. Their voices faded as they went downstairs toward the kitchen where Weasley was waiting, undoubtedly hoping for a reason to take another swing at him.

"Have you told anyone else that you're home?" Hermione asked.

"No," Harry said. "I haven't had the chance."

"We should let everyone know. They'll be so happy to see you and Ron."

* * *

The night had been fitful for the both of them. After Harry and Ron had gone to sleep, Draco crossed the landing to her room. He eased the door open and quietly slipped inside. Their relationship—if you could call it that–carried a weight, a seriousness, that it hadn't before. It seemed more significant than it had before Harry and Ron had come home. For a long time, Grimmauld Place felt divorced from the world outside. That had come to end, though. There were consequences now. Whatever they had, whatever was going on between them, was no longer suspended in a surreal, inconsequential space. Reality was beginning to seep in.

Hermione lay awake in the darkness of the early morning. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was only quarter past six. Whenever she closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind, her thoughts came back again and again to her argument with Draco. She was being unfair. She was punishing him for something he knew nothing about. It was the other Draco, the one from her future, that she wanted to hurt. She was taking all of her anger and frustration out on the wrong one.

On the other side of her room her door quietly opened. She recognized the familiar silhouette in the dark, though she couldn't make out his expression. He gently closed the door behind him. Neither of them said anything as he walked across the room to her bed. She didn't move as he took his spot on the other side of the bed. The springs groaned under his weight. He closed his eyes but did not fall asleep.

The two of them just laid there in silence, feigning sleep if just for the comfort of having the other nearby. Hermione shifted, looking at Draco next to her, one arm behind his head and the other across his stomach.

"I lied to you earlier," she whispered.

Though his eyes were closed and he didn't acknowledge her admission, she knew he was awake. There was a long silence before he spoke.

"Why?" he murmured, his eyes still closed.

"You don't make it easy...to care about you."

He didn't say anything so she continued.

"Which I do," she whispered. "Care about you. And it frightens me."

"Because I'm a murderer? A Death Eater?"

"Because I don't think you feel the same."

Draco opened his eyes and turned to look at her. She was on her side, looking at him with wide, bright eyes. Her could see the anxiety and vulnerability in her face. He could see her chest quickly rising and falling. She was genuinely afraid but it wasn't an expression of fear he'd seen before. It wasn't panic or terror but apprehension.

She was looking at him the way she had in his dream, right before he said those three daunting words. He grabbed her face and pulled it toward his own, pressing his lips against hers roughly. He couldn't say he cared about her, not aloud. Draco was a great many things, but sensitive was not one of them. He was brusque and rude, he cared little about anyone other than himself. But with Hermione, it was so much more than a yearning or a longing. He found himself preoccupied with thoughts of her, he wondered what she was thinking or feeling, he dreamt about her every night, he worried about her safety and her well-being. He lacked any semblance of self control when he was around her. He wanted her but for all his personal inadequacies and shortcomings, he couldn't tell her.

Draco poured all his pent up frustration into the kiss which slowly turned more fervent. He coaxed her mouth open with his and eased her back onto the bed. His hips pressed into hers and he settled himself between her legs. Hermione realized she no longer knew what she was doing. This went beyond what her limited experience had taught her. For all her knowledge of magic, she knew nothing of intimacy and physical relationships.

Hermione put her hands on his shoulders hesitantly. He could feel her uncertainty in her careful touch. She slowly slid her hands along his chest, up his back, around the back of his neck. It didn't occur to him until then that this was the first time she'd ever touched someone like this. She tangled her fingers in his disheveled blonde hair.

"You should go back to your room before Harry and Ron wake up," she whispered, her lips grazing his, her warmth breath on his.

Draco could hear the lack of conviction in her words. He pressed his hand flat against the soft, warm skin of her lower back. "You don't want me to go."

He was right, she didn't want him to leave. There was an ache she'd never felt before, somewhere deep inside of her. It was both unnerving and exciting. Her heart was racing, her breathing was uneven. Her mouth was dry, her skin felt like it was on fire, and every time his hips moved against hers her muscles tensed.

"No," she whispered.

What would happen if Harry and Ron found out? They'd never forgive her and they would kill him. But a voice in the back of her mind insisted that she was a grown woman and she was entitled to some privacy. As his hand slid to her side and up along her stomach, she found it increasingly difficult to care about what Harry or Ron would think.

Her mouth fell open as his thumb grazed the untouched skin just beneath her breasts. He captured her swollen bottom lip between his and nipped at it gently. He could feel the quick rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. He knew it excited her, the way he touched her. The secrecy of the whole affair made it that much more titillating.

He cupped her face and put his thumb just beneath her chin. With a gentle push her head fell back against the pillow. She looked up at the ceiling, exposing the length of her neck.

His warm breath made her skin tingle but not nearly as much as his lips against her neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, his lips trailing kisses and love bites down to the gentle dip of her collar bone. Her hands slid from his neck along the steep slope of his spine to the small of his back. She played with the hem of his shirt, nervously pushing it up. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the raised lines of his scars. She absently traced them as he pulled her face down to his. Just as his tongue touched hers they heard a door.

Hermione froze, trying to hear over her own thundering heartbeat. The footsteps disappeared down the stairs. She let out a breath she'd been holding and Draco dropped his head in the crook of her neck, groaning.

"Out," she whispered, pushing him off of her.

He rolled over with a defeated sigh.

She sat up and quickly pulled her shirt down. She looked down at him lying next to her. His shirt was wrinkly and his hair was unruly from where she'd run her fingers through it. Though she rarely saw him look so disheveled she couldn't help but appreciate how terribly handsome he looked.

"Out. Now," she whispered.

He slowly made his way to the door. She opened the door slowly, wincing as the old hinges let out a short whine. The house was quiet with the exception of the loud grandfather clock counting away the minutes. The landing was dark. A dim light filtered up from the kitchen, illuminating the bottom of the stairs. Hermione pushed him out the door and went to snap it shut but Draco stopped it with his hand. He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. After a few moments she pulled away and shut the door quickly. Draco turned around and crossed the landing to his own room.

**TO BE CONTINUED**


	17. Chapter Seventeen: About Today

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

I would just like to extend a big thank you to the people who have continued to read this story and those who have added it to their favourites. It has been an inordinately long time since my last update. Anyone that's read these preambles knows that I was applying to law school. I didn't get in to law school but I did get into an MA program for English Lit which keeps me ridiculously busy.

I would like to know what you think of the direction the story is taking. Too much dialogue? Not enough plot? More action? What would you like to see? It's been a while since I've had any feedback so feel free to put your two cents in!

**Disclaimer**: All characters, settings, and prior events in and of the Harry Potter series belong to the wonderful JK Rowling. I am not writing this for profit or personal gain, but merely for pleasure. I mean no harm or disrespect. After all, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery!

Happy reading!  
JJ

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  
****ABOUT TODAY**

_Today you were far away  
__and I didn't ask you why  
__What could I say  
__I was far away  
__You just walked away  
__and I just watched you  
__What could I say_

"About Today" by The National

"I think I'll be sick," Ron said.

"Maybe you shouldn't have had that third helping," Harry said.

They heard Hermione wish everyone a good night before closing the front door. She walked down the hallway into the kitchen, a dishtowel in her hands and a smile on her face.

"Everyone is so happy that you two are home," she said, sitting down opposite them.

Although Mrs. Weasley insisted on doing the dishes (with a handy little spell, of course), Hermione wouldn't hear it. She had cooked up a truly impressive amount of food: puddings, beef, pork, lamb stew, and innumerable desserts. She had outdone herself and Hermione felt quite useless. Unlike Mrs. Weasley, she was a novice in the kitchen. Household spells were not her specialty. She'd grown up cooking and cleaning without magic, and those skills, like spells themselves, required practice. Having been at Hogwarts for the past several years, she'd never really had an opportunity to work on them. Her compromise was cleaning up afterwards. It was the least she could do. Everyone had such a wonderful time. It was the first time Grimmauld Place felt like a home in a long while. The kitchen was warm and filled with the delicious smells of a home-cooked meal. There was laughter and boisterous conversation. Not once was the name Voldemort mentioned. There was no talk of battles, or attacks, or terror. It was a pleasant evening of good company.

Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

"What?" she asked, her a look of concern replacing her smile.

"We might not be here for long," Harry said.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The house is a bit...crowded," Ron said, his jaw tensing up with the last word.

Hermione let out an annoyed sigh.

"Tell me this is not about Draco," she said.

"It isn't," Harry said. "It's about the Horcruxes."

"Speak for yourself," Ron grumbled.

"Voldemort will have started to figure out what we're doing. These are pieces of his soul we're destroying. With each Horcrux we destroy he becomes weaker and he's getting desperate. The longer we wait, the worse this will be for everyone," Harry said.

"We have to be careful," she insisted. "We need a plan. We can't just rush into anything."

"That's partly why we came," Harry said.

Hermione nodded, quickly catching on to what Harry was insinuating. "You're here to speak to Draco."

Harry nodded. "We could use his help."

It pained him to say it. Harry was not a particularly proud individual but there were some things he could not subject himself to, and one of those things was anything having to do with Draco Malfoy. Their bitter school rivalry had snowballed into something much more volatile. It was less about House pride and more about conflicting moral perspectives and contradictory ideologies. Draco had been raised with every idea that Harry loathed, every belief that Harry fought against and resisted on a daily basis. His family represented all that was poisonous and wretched in the wizarding world. It was why Ron hated him with ever fiber of his being and why it was so hard for Harry to admit they could use his help.

Hermione thought about what Draco told her weeks ago, about the piece of Voldemort's soul that was inside Harry. He didn't even know and she didn't know how to tell him. She was beginning to understand what it meant and she couldn't bring herself to tell him that if he wanted to truly destroy Voldemort, he would have to die. He'd been through so much, he sacrificed so much for everyone. How could she tell him? What would she even say?

"All we need from him is information. He's not leaving this house so he can go back to the Death Eaters with everything he knows now," Ron said. "I mean, how do we know we can trust him anyways?"

"This isn't a prison," she said. "He's free to come and go."

"And yet he stays locked up here all the time?" Ron asked.

"No," she said. "In case you haven't noticed, he wasn't here this evening."

"Where was he?" Harry asked.

No one bothered to mention his absence at dinner. It was just the Weasleys, Lupin, and Tonks; an intimate family affair. No one brought up anything having to do with the Order, especially not a sore subject like Draco Malfoy.

"He's been spending time with Mad-Eye," Hermione said.

"Mad-Eye?" Harry asked, surprised. "Alastor Moody?"

Hermione nodded. "The last person you'd expect to take a shining to Draco."

"Doing what?" Ron asked.

"Learning about wandless magic from what I understand," Hermione said.

"Come on," Ron scoffed. "Why would he teach Malfoy anything? Mad-Eye is just as suspicious of him as we are. That's got to be why he's keeping an eye on him."

"You're not on about this again, are you?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, I am," he said. "I don't trust him."

"You've made that abundantly clear, Ronald."

"I don't get it. What's he done to change your mind?" Ron asked. "He treated you worst of all, wanted your lot done away with."

"My lot?" she glared at him.

"You know what I mean," he said. "You know it doesn't matter to us. It does to him, though. I don't care what he says or does, I know that purity rubbish is still there."

"He left everything he's ever known to come here, to a place where he is judged and treated with suspicion," she said.

"Then he's a good actor," Ron insisted.

"I know he's changed," she said.

"You _think_ he has," he said. "That's not the same as knowing."

"He's changed," she repeated.

"Prove it," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

Well, she thought. It's now or never. She opened her mouth to explain the complicated situation at Grimmauld Place, the case of the two Dracos, but she didn't have to say anything. The older Draco stepped out from the shadow of the hall where he'd undoubtedly been listening to them bicker.

"Proof enough?" he asked, looking at Ron with a hardened expression.

Hermione looked from Draco to Harry and Ron. The voice was no doubt familiar but the face was not what they expected. The five o'clock shadow along his jaw and the dark circles under his eyes made him look older. They weren't looking at the face of the Draco they'd seen the day before but the face of a Draco who'd been through a lot more than they realized.

There was a moment of tense silence. Harry's eyes widened. He turned to look at Hermione, his mouth agape. She knew that it would be Harry who would understand. It had been the two of them that had meddled with time. Harry was well acquainted with time travel and the dangers that came with it. Ron looked similarly confused but the moment of understanding never came.

"But that's not possible," Harry said.

"I'm sorry," Ron said. "Did I miss something?"

"It's not," Draco said. "But here I am, nonetheless."

"What the ruddy hell is going on?" Ron asked, slowly getting to his feet. "You're supposed to be out."

"He is," Hermione said. "Or at least the Draco you know is."

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked.

"This is Draco . . . but from the future," she said.

There was another moment of stunned silence. She could almost see the gears turning in Ron's head as he grappled to understand what she was telling them.

"No," Ron said, shaking his head. "Nope. Absolutely not."

"There was an accident," Hermione said. "He was using a Time Turner and it malfunctioned. It sent him back years instead of hours. He just turned up here, at Grimmauld Place, in this kitchen."

"A Time Turner doesn't turn back years. You told me that," Harry said, looking to Hermione for some sort of explanation.

"I know," Hermione said. "I did say that but something happened. He turned it but the glass—"

"How long ago did this happen?" Ron asked, an angry flush crawling up his neck.

"A few months—"

"MONTHS?" he shouted. "And you're just telling us now?"

"Let her speak," Draco said.

"You stay out of this. You're nothing but a damn Death Eater—"

"Ron!" Harry said.

"No," Ron snapped, turning to Hermione. "First you forget to mention that Malfoy is here at all and now there are two of them?"

"We've been over this," Hermione said. "I couldn't very well have sent a letter. I didn't know where you were and it was too risky. No one knows where Draco is and we're trying to keep it that way."

"I thought you were smart, Hermione! You're protecting not one, but _two_ Death Eaters!"

"He's not a Death Eater. He's a member of the Order and has been for years. If you'd just stop letting your childish prejudices get the better of you, you could see that!"

"Are you blind, Hermione? Look at that Mark! It doesn't just go away. It's for life!"

"That's enough," Draco said, stepping toward Ron.

Ron turned his anger from Hermione to Draco.

"Do you honestly think pretending to be a member of the Order is going to make up for any of the things you've done? The people you've killed?"

"I'm not trying to make up for anything," Draco said.

"You don't even feel bad about what you've done," Ron said, a disdainful sneer on his face. He turned to look at Hermione. "If you need proof that he doesn't belong here, there it is."

"Ron," Hermione said in a pleading voice. "Please stop."

"No," Ron said, refusing to look away from Draco. "It's because of you and your disgusting family that Sirius is dead."

"I am not my family," Draco said, his voice hard and even.

Hermione could see that Ron was coming dangerously close to setting Draco off. Although he gave a good impression of someone composed and in control of his emotions, she could see the flash of anger in his eyes.

"You're not loyal to anyone or anything, are you?" Ron asked. "You do whatever suits you best, you selfish prat."

"I know you have a disdainfully high regard for yourself, Weasley, but don't, for one moment, think you know who I am."

"But I do!" Ron laughed bitterly. "I know exactly who you are. You're a murderer and a coward. You're a filthy Death Eater and you're taking advantage of the one person here who, for whatever reason, thinks you've just up and changed."

"You're going to talk to me about taking advantage of Hermione," he said, glaring at the redhead in front of him. "You've treated her with indifference. You abandoned her, left her alone in this house, and now you're going to criticize her for trying to be a better person than you."

Ron was red in the face and nearly quivering with anger. He opened his mouth to let loose a belligerent attack on Draco's character but Draco shook his head and stepped closer to him.

"No," he said. "No, just shut up. I'm not finished, not nearly finished with you. You think you know so much about my world, about Death Eaters? You think people join Voldemort out of loyalty? They don't. My aunt is a spectacularly vile exception to this rule but everyone you see as evil and monstrous, well they're not there of their own volition. He coerces, threatens, and tortures. If it's not physical abuse, it's emotional and psychological. He destroys you, breaks you down until you are just a pathetic shell of the person you once were. You have no memories, no feelings, nothing. You are just a _thing_, barely alive, reduced to your most base human drives. Self-preservation, that's what it all boils down to. I may hate myself, Weasley, but I want to live long enough to change that. I don't need validation and I certainly don't need your fucking approval, but if so desperately want to know why I'm here, it's because I realized a long time ago that I couldn't look in a mirror anymore."

A deafening silence fell in the room. Ron was still livid but Draco hadn't looked away from him. His gaze was direct and unforgiving. All the muscles in his body were tense. Hermione touched Draco's arm, trying calm him down and prevent the situation from becoming uglier than it already was. As soon as her fingers touched his hot skin, he turned and started out of the room. At the doorway he turned with a slight shake of his head. He looked up at Ron and pointed a threatening finger at him.

"If you ever call into question my loyalty or attack my family again, I'll kill you."

"Draco!" Hermione snapped.

He didn't listen to her. Her disapproval didn't faze him. He turned on his heel and continued on his way. They could hear his heavy, stomping footsteps fade as he went upstairs.

"He didn't mean that," Hermione said.

"Yes he did, Hermione," Harry said, sitting down and running a hand through his hair. "He meant all of it."

"Why did you provoke him?" Hermione asked, turning to Ron.

"I didn't provoke him. All of that was just proof that he hasn't changed at all."

"No it isn't," Hermione said. "Were you listening to anything he said?"

"I try not to whenever he opens his mouth."

"You're the one who hasn't changed, Ronald!"

"Me?"

"Yes, you! I hate to say it because I know you can be better than this, but he was right. You just fall back into the same childish behaviour. You hate him because that's what we did for so long. Things are different now! You don't have to hate him anymore but it kills you to think of him as a person who might feel shame or regret for what he's done or who he was."

"He's not done anything to show us he's changed!"

"He saved your life! He saved mine! He's done nothing but help us from the moment he showed up at Grimmauld Place. We treated him with suspicion and disdain but all he wanted to do was help."

"Listen to yourself! You sound like you're in love with him!" Ron shouted.

Everything Hermione was going to say vanished before her. Her mind went blank. She had no words. She closed her mouth. What was she supposed to say to that? It was absurd, of course. She didn't love him, she couldn't love him. She didn't even know him. He was a stranger from her future. How dare Ron say something like that to her? He was emotional and felt like he was being attacked. His instinct was always to push back when he felt threatened. Her and Ron had left things up in the air when he and Harry left and that's where they remained since then. They hadn't settled anything, they hadn't spoken about their relationship. It had been months since they'd been in the same room together and the only correspondence she received from him was the occasional short note that let her know the two of them were alive. That was hardly a foundation for a healthy relationship.

She had been alone at Grimmauld Place for so long and then Draco came along. He had once told her that she was lonely and he was right. With her two best friends gone, and many others far away, in hiding, or dead, she felt profoundly alone. With Draco here, with both Dracos here, she had companionship. She had someone to confide in, someone to worry aloud to, someone to yell at, to sit with, to eat with, to joke with, to run ideas by. She wasn't trapped in her mind anymore. She had someone there. If she came to trust him, so what? He deserved her trust. He had earned it. He put himself before her and so many others. There was nothing bad about that. There was nothing bad about the strange and unlikely friendship they had struck either. It was good for her.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm disappointed in you."

She turned away from the two of them and started toward the stairs.

"Good night," she said. 

* * *

"Are you alright?"

"No," he sighed.

"Ron can be difficult—"

"Try obtuse."

"Obtuse? I was expecting something much more offensive."

Draco looked at her as she stood in the doorway with a faint smile on her face.

"Everything will be fine," she reassured him.

"Isn't this supposed to be the other way around?" he said. "I should be the one telling you everything is going to be alright."

"Yes, but it's not quite fair. You _know_ that everything will be alright. It's not very reassuring."

"Shouldn't that be all the reassurance you need?"

"No," she said. "There's a difference between knowing and believing. Only when you truly believe that things will turn out alright does it make you feel better. You can know something but not believe it."

He looked at her for a long time. Her curls were a bit haphazard but she looked calm, at ease even, which was surprising considering the difficult position he had just put her in. Harry and Ron were her closest friends and he could barely be in the same room as them. It was unfair to make her work to smooth things over between them, to ask her to divide her attentions between them. He knew better than to let Ron Weasley bait him and frankly, she deserved better.

"You're incredible," he said.

Her expression changed minutely but he couldn't quite describe what changed. Her eyes seemed harder somehow. It was the faintest difference but a difference nonetheless. It seemed he'd overstepped his bounds. She looked away from him and shifted partly out of embarrassment and partly out of discomfort.

"Don't think that Ron speaks for everyone," she said, as though he hadn't said anything at all.

"But he does," Draco said. She could sense the tiredness in his voice, the toll it was taking on him having to actively convince people that he had changed and wouldn't sell them out to Voldemort at the first opportunity. He dragged a hand through his hair. "On some level he does."

"No," she said.

"Yes, Hermione," Draco said, a little louder this time. "Everyone has doubts. I can see it in the way they look at me, the expressions on their faces. If I say or do anything that is not one hundred percent beyond reproach, the fear and the worry starts to creep back in. I'll never be done proving myself to you."

"You don't have to prove anything to me," she said. "I know that you're trying. I can see it. If they can't, then to hell with them."

"Such language."

She shot him a sharp look and a crooked grin pulled at his lips. She crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed next to him. She looked at the bare walls, the dark patches along the wallpaper where news clippings and pictures had once shielded it from the sun.

"I couldn't stand to look at the walls," he said, noticing her looking around the room.

"It doesn't look like anyone lives here," she said.

There were no trinkets or personal items on any of the shelves or tables in the room. The only exception was a few books on the desk. Nothing had changed since the last time she was in here.

"There's no point in making myself comfortable."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, looking at him with a concerned expression.

"Nothing," he said.

She sighed. "You'll never tell me the whole truth, will you?"

"No," he said. "I won't."

"Why not?" she asked. "And don't give me any of that nonsense about keeping me safe. We're well beyond that now, wouldn't you agree?"

"Because I care about you too much to hurt you with all the terrible things that are going to happen. Because I'm selfish and I want to keep you here, now, away from those things for as long as possible."

Although her heart began to race and she began to imagine all sorts of awful things—violence, death, and destruction—she held his gaze.

"Am I scaring you?"

"No," she murmured.

He couldn't take it anymore. She'd been so close for weeks and yet so far. It was a painfully ironic example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he could do was catch her eye, make her smile and laugh, sit near her. All he wanted to do was touch her, feel her skin under his hand. His memory paled in comparison to electricity, the static, that seemed to fill the room. She was right there, sitting right next to him. He could see the freckles on her bare arms. He could see each individual eyelash framing her warm, hazel eyes. He could smell her shampoo and feel the warmth of her body. All he had to do was reach across that short distance between them.

And he did.

He let out a curse under his breath. It was now or never. He grabbed her face, her soft hair draping along his hands, and pressed his lips roughly to hers. It was a hard, urgent kiss cut with desperation. Hermione froze for a moment, her mind struggling to catch up with the sudden onslaught of sensations. It was so familiar. She'd kissed these lips before, but there was something different. This wasn't her Draco. This was the Draco who had appeared out of thin air, the accidental Draco she was never supposed the meet, the one who literally turned up at her feet. All evening she'd been projecting her Draco onto him, her feelings for the other Draco onto him. It wasn't fair to any of them; to her, to him, or to the other Draco. As her mind caught up with what was going on, she pushed him away. Her eyes were wide and she had her hand over her mouth, her lips burning from his touch.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said.

He opened his mouth to speak but she wouldn't hear it. She got up and rushed out of the room. It was better that way. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what he would've said. Everything he'd been hinting at and everything he'd written in his journal—the revelation that she and him were married—it all started to come into focus, creating a horribly vivid picture Hermione didn't want to see. She rushed down the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her. 

* * *

By the time Draco returned to Grimmauld Place the house was dark and quiet. Everyone had gone to bed. It was a relief, really. He was exhausted and in no mood to argue with Potter and Weasley. Mad-Eye was pushing his wandless magic to the limit, pushing him to tempt spells far beyond his skill level, and pushing him to hone his instincts. Draco had a unique skill set. He was raised in a family that prized and practiced Dark Magic. He was well versed in the Dark Arts, yet he didn't fight for Voldemort anymore. Mad-Eye told him his ability to think like a Dark wizard would mean the difference between coming out on the winning end and coming out on the losing end. He also had something the Death Eaters didn't have: he had something to lose. Draco was sure that Mad-Eye was hounding him and testing him just so he could keep an eye on him (after all, the man was bristling with paranoia and suspicion), but Mad-Eye thought of him as a curious case. Draco Malfoy was the one who was once bad but wanted to do good.

Perhaps it was that he could sympathize with Draco. He was a legendary Auror, but many feared his methods. Everyone said that the reason Mad-Eye put away so many Dark witches and wizards was because he had an affinity with the Dark Arts, a mind capable of understanding them. He could think like a Death Eater and in the eyes of many, that was a dangerous thing regardless of whose side you were on. It gave you an edge but it also made you unpredictable and dangerous. It made you unscrupulous and at times desperate to finish the job no matter the consequences. Mad-Eye had a dangerous mind and he could see the same quality in Draco. Watching him murder Antonin Dolohov without flinching or blinking made Mad-Eye realize that if Draco was not to turn into the monsters he wanted to destroy, he would have to offer him some much-needed guidance. No one in the Order was keen on sitting in the same room as Draco let alone giving him the advice he desperately needed.

Draco trudged up the stairs. He had no intention of going to his room. He reached for the closed door to Hermione's room but it didn't budge. He jiggled the doorknob. Nothing. She'd locked the door.

Hermione lay awake on the other side. She listened to the doorknob turn, the floorboards creek under his shifting weight just beyond the door. He didn't say anything but stood for a moment before leaving. She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding in. She heard the sound of a door close across the landing. She couldn't bring herself to look at him, not after what she'd done. She tried to rationalize it. Technically, they were the same person. It wasn't like she and Draco were an item. They were . . . well, she didn't know what they were but whatever it was, it was intimate. She'd kept it a secret from Harry and Ron. Why? Aside from the fact that they would murder him, she couldn't bring herself to do it. It was something private, something she wanted to keep to herself. They didn't need to know. It was her personal business, a little bit of solace in an otherwise chaotic, unfeeling world. It was the furthest thing from a functioning, healthy relationship. It was destructive, it caused her more grief than anything, but she kept pushing it further. She refused to allow herself to wonder why that might be. It was difficult enough coming to the terms that she had a physical as well as emotional connection to Draco. So why did she feel guilt and shame? Why was it so terrible to kiss the other Draco? It was intense and frightfully sincere. She could feel everything he was feeling behind the kiss. There was something there that she didn't feel when she kissed the younger Draco and she knew it was because they were two very different people who meant two very different things to her. Unwittingly, she could not bring herself to feel okay about the kiss, about her feelings for either Draco. It was most certainly not okay and having Harry and Ron there only made things more complicated.

Gritting his teeth Draco went to his own room. He'd barely spent a single night in it since arriving at Grimmauld Place. It was cold and empty, and he was certain it would be a long, restless night. For some inexplicable reason, Hermione kept the nightmares at bay. With her he could sleep through the night but without her he was plagued with horribly vivid dreams.

Potter and Weasley, he thought bitterly. He and Hermione had spent every night together for the past week. Things were fine until they turned up. Now she was locking her door. He was certain it had something to do with them when it was the older, future version of himself that had caused all the trouble. 

* * *

_Something wasn't right. There was no sound, no crickets, no breeze rustling the autumn leaves. Nothing. The small village was asleep. A thick fog hung close to the ground. Wands at the ready, they made their way through the small graveyard. Draco's eyes jumped from grave to grave, shadow to shadow. The moon was high, there were no clouds, and the night was strangely bright. The autumn air was cold. He could see his breath in front of him, disappearing as quickly as it appeared._

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

_Draco ducked as a gravestone next to him exploded. The Death Eater emerged from behind a twisted oak tree. Draco couldn't see behind the shadow of the black cloak but it made no difference who it was. _

"_Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted. _

_The Death Eater dodged behind the tree. Several clocked figures closed in on the graveyard, flanking the small group of Order members. Streams of light flew every which way. Shouts and curses echoed off the stone walls of the nearby church. The Death Eaters spent more time disappearing only to reappear across the cemetery moments later, dividing the group and keeping them occupied. Their curses were not aimed at anyone or anything in particular. There was no sense of urgency or danger. Then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone. _

"_What's happened?" Tonks asked. _

"_They're gone!" Fred said. He and George came running to the small group in the centre of the cemetery. _

_Draco turned to the older wizard beside him. "Who told you about this?"_

"_Severus," Remus said. _

_Draco frowned. Something was undoubtedly wrong. Why would Severus send them here? The Death Eaters barely put up a fight. Other than a few crumbling gravestones, the sleepy village of Godric's Hollow had barely been disturbed. They hadn't interrupted an attack, they'd walked into one. _

"_He set us up," Ron said. _

"_Shut up," Draco snapped._

"_Severus wouldn't knowingly send us into a trap," Remus said._

"_Why would he risk telling us about the attack, risk exposing himself, if it was just a ambush?" Harry asked._

_Draco let out a growl of frustration. Why Godric's Hollow of all places? As far as he knew, there was nothing of value here. There was nothing Voldemort could possibly want. He had nothing to gain by sending his Death Eaters to the small village in the West Country. _

"_Why here?" Draco asked, looking at Harry as though he would have the answer._

_Harry glanced at two graves a few feet away from them. It had been some time since he'd visited them. The war had a momentum of its own. It was all-consuming and he thought of little else but destroying Voldemort. His mother and father were always in the back of his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to visit their graves. _

"_It's where my parents were killed," Harry said. _

"_It would make sense if they were trying to draw you out into the open or capture you," Draco said, the irritation in his voice palpable. "But they just left." _

"_What if it wasn't a trap for Harry," Fred said. _

"_Who else would it be for?" Ron asked._

"_It's a classic case of misdirection," Tonks said. _

"_How so?" Harry asked._

"_They make it seem like it's you they're after but it's really something else all along," George said._

"_Or someone else," Fred added._

"_That still doesn't explain who else Voldemort would be after," Remus said. _

"_We're all here, aren't we?" Ron asked._

"_Except for Bill and Fleur," George said. "They're at the cottage." _

"_What about Mad-Eye?" Harry asked. _

"_No," Draco said, a sinking feeling settling at the bottom of his stomach. "Severus told us about the attack. That was the plan all along. Voldemort must know that Severus would tell the Order. He wanted us all here." _

"_Why?" Ron asked. _

"_Hermione," Draco said._

_And with a shark crack he disapparated. _

_He appeared in front of the dark house. The front door was hanging off its hinges. Draco broke out into a run. He took the front steps two at a time and bounded down the hallway just as everyone apparated at the front of the house. _

"_Hermione!" he shouted._

_The kitchen was a disaster. Pots and pans littered the floor and the countertops. One of the legs of the kitchen table had been broken off and chairs had been all but blown to splinters. There was blood splattered along the floor. Draco felt bile rise in his throat. The ringing in ears was deafening. _

"_No, no, no, no," he murmured._

"_Mum!" Tonks shouted, spotting Andromeda at the top of the stairs. She was unconscious and slumped against the wall. _

"_HERMIONE!" Draco shouted. _

_He went into the sitting room. Everything in the room had been upturned. The sofa cushions were on the floor. Pillows were ripped to shreds and feathers littered the room. Several shelves had been ripped off the wall, the content scattered all over the place: shards of glass, broken trinkets, books and journals, rolls of parchment. The coffee table was in half in the centre of the room. The room felt like it was spinning. A small glimmer caught his eye. He slowly walked to the centre of the room. On the floor, half-hidden beneath an upturned chair, was a small ring. He picked it up, spotting a small pool of blood on the carpet beside it. He stood just as the group appeared in the doorway. Draco turned, looking up from the ring in his hand. _

_Standing at the front of the group was Andromeda. She had a nasty cut above her left eyebrow and a dark bruise starting to form around her eye. Her blonde hair, mottled with silver, was in disarray. She looked around the room, her eyes wide and glistening. Tonks stood beside her and clutched her hand so tightly it seemed she was holding the older witch up. _

"_Mum," Tonks implored. "You're bleeding. You need to see Poppy." _

_She shook her head. "No," she said adamantly. "I'm fine."_

"_You're not fine," she insisted. _

"_Nymphadora, I am fine," she said sharply. _

_Although she had married a muggle-born and had been disowned by her family, there were some trappings of her former life that she was never able to get rid of. One of those things was her sharp, authoritative tone. She carried herself much like her sister Narcissa and even spoke like her at times. But time and experience had softened her heart. She was kind and affectionate in ways that her sisters never were. She learned to appreciate others for their differences rather than scorn them. Although she'd never been able to know her nephew growing up, she'd come to admire the young man he'd grown into in the months since he'd joined the Order. He was so much like his mother, she thought. He looked like her, he had the same strong will and reserved kindness. There were other traits, though, that he had unfortunately inherited from his father; chief among them was his violent temper. She slowly walked up to Draco. _

"_What happened?" he asked. _

"_I am so sorry, my boy," she said quietly. _

_He closed his hand into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white. He could feel the sharp facets of the small diamond cutting into his palm. _

"_WHAT HAPPENED?" he shouted. _

_Tonks took an abrupt step forward with an angry frown on her face. Remus shared a similar expression of disapproval. He began to admonish Draco but Andromeda through her hand up in a gesture that stopped them both short. She knew what her family was like. She'd seen it so often when was younger; her parents and her siblings were possessed by a violent temper. It was the fuel that fed Voldemort's fire, both the first time around and now. He had to find a voice for his anger and find someone to blame. If that meant that she would bear the brunt of the blame, then so be it. Draco couldn't afford to bottle up the anger, the pain, and the malice. He wouldn't survive it. It was a toxin, a poison that would spread throughout his body. It would make him hard-hearted, cold, and cruel. He had come so far, had grown into a good man, and she would not see him turn into Lucius. _

"_Shortly after you left, they came," she said._

"_Bellatrix?" Draco asked. _

"_I don't know," she said. "I didn't see their faces."_

_Draco just shook his head. _

"_Your mother would be so proud of you," she said, placing her soft palm against his cheek._

_Draco looked into her eyes. They were the same mix of blue and grey as his. His aunt's features were softer and rounder than his mother's, but the resemblance was uncanny. Although his mother was gone, Hermione was missing, and they were losing the war, there was something so reassuring about her touch. Perhaps it was precisely what he needed, right then and there, a maternal affection. Draco was not one to be comforted, but her concerned expression was a salve to soothe the aching wound, if only for a while. _

"_You should get that looked at," he said finally, glancing at the cut above her eyebrow._

_She smiled sadly and nodded. Just beneath the surface she could see the anger and the desire for vengeance threatening to boil over. She gently patted his cheek. The group stood in the doorway with mixed expressions of anger and concern. _

"_How did this happen?" Tonks asked. _

"_Snape," Ron said. _

"_He didn't betray anyone," Harry said. _

"_We don't know that," Ron said._

"_Severus would never turn on the Order," Tonks said._

_There was a long silence before anyone spoke. _

"_What I don't understand is how the Death Eaters knew Hermione would be here," Ron said._

"_What?" Draco asked. _

"_Wouldn't it have been safer if she were at Grimmauld Place? They never could've gotten her in there."_

"_Ron," Harry said, giving his friend a pointed look. _

"_What are you saying?" Draco asked._

"_I just want to know why you left her here. If she was at home none of this would've happened. She'd be safe." _

"_Are you saying that this is my fault?" Draco asked, his voice getting louder. _

"_If the shoe fits," Ron snapped. _

"_I would _never_ put her in danger," Draco said. "_Never_." _

_Ron scoffed. "All you've done is put her in danger since the moment you turned up at Grimmauld Place. She could be _dead_—"_

_Draco grabbed the front of Ron's shirt in both of his hands and shoved him violently against the table behind him, toppling over a stack of books and shattering a glass vase. _

"_Draco!" Remus said. _

_Draco was breathing heavily. His skin felt hot and his jaw was so tightly clenched it began to ache. He shook his head and loosed his grip long enough for Ron to disentangle himself. Draco turned to leave the room._

"_You're not the only one who cares about her," Ron snapped._

"_No," Draco said, opening his fist to show them the small diamond ring in his hand and reaching with his other hand to pull a chain out from under his jumper. On it was a plain silver band. "But she's _my_ wife."_

* * *

Hermione ran into the room to see Draco writhing on the bed, shouting incoherently. The sheets were wrapped around his legs. His hands were fisted in his hair and she could see by the light of her wand that his face, beaded with sweat, was contorted in an expression of pain. He clenched his jaw so tightly she thought his teeth might crack. The veins in his neck jutted out, every muscle in his body jerked as though he were under the Cruciatus curse.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Ron asked, appearing bleary eyed next to her.

Harry stood behind him, looking on with pity. He knew only too well what night terrors looked like. Harry's experience was strangely similar to Draco's. Whereas Harry had visions he shared with Voldemort, Draco dreamt of his future. Somehow, his proximity to his future self created an anomaly in which his future self's memories began to bleed into his dreams. He didn't understand was he was seeing but that didn't make it any less real. He was dreaming about a sequence of events, a future, that had not happened and might not ever happen.

"He has nightmares," she said.

"Of what?" Ron asked, looking on.

Hermione didn't answer right away.

"Whatever it is that made him leave, it must've been something terrible," she said.

It was partly true. His family's expectations, his horrific association with Death Eaters, and doing Voldemort's bidding drove him from the only home he'd ever known. From what she could gather when he briefly mentioned his life at Malfoy Manor, it was more than unpleasant. But that wasn't what his nightmares were about. They were something entirely different. They weren't even dreams really, just memories that didn't belong to him per say. Hermione grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

"Draco," she said loudly. "Wake up!"

She shook him harder when he didn't respond.

He bolted up so violently he sent Hermione tumbling to the floor. His chest was rising and falling quickly and he blinked as his eyes tried to adjust to the din.

"You were having a fit," Ron said.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he asked, looking from Ron to Harry who helped Hermione to her feet.

"Oi, you woke us up with all your screaming," Ron said.

"And you just came in here to see if I was alright. How sweet of you, Weasley."

"That's enough," Hermione snapped.

It was three in the morning. The last thing she wanted to hear was them bickering.

"C'mon Ron," Harry said.

Ron stared at Draco with a cold glare for a few more moments before disappearing into the dark hall. Hermione waited until she heard the door to their room close before she turned back to Draco. All she needed was one look at him to know that he was angry at her. He lay back down on his bed. He was covered in a sheen of sweat and his hair was stuck up in every direction but their was no mistaking his hard expression.

"You can go now," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You remember where the door is, right?"

"No."

"Well it's that rectangular wooden thing—"

"I mean no, I'm not leaving."

He stopped and looked at her, setting his jaw.

"Not before you hear me out," she said.

"I don't need an explanation. I'm a big boy, Granger. No need to coddle me."

"You're angry."

"No, I'm tired. My head feels like it's splitting open. All I want to do is go back to sleep and you're here nagging."

Hermione ignored his jab. He was being defensive. He was hurt and she wanted to make it right.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

He just looked at her.

"If you're afraid to go back to sleep, I can stay."

"I'm not afraid."

"You were screaming," she said.

"It was just a nightmare. I'm fine."

She wished she could tell him the truth. She wanted him to know that they weren't just dreams. It wouldn't make the night terrors disappear but it might give him some reassurance. He wasn't going mad. These weren't just terrible fantasies or figments of his imagination. He deserved to know the truth.

"Go to bed, Hermione."

She sat down on the bed beside him. He shifted and sighed heavily.

"Your own bed," he said.

"I'm staying," she said.

He looked at her. She didn't look at him with pity but with concern. She cared about what he though and yet he couldn't understand why she felt the need to shut him out. Had he frightened her? Or done something wrong? These feelings of insecurity and vulnerability only made him angrier. She leaned across the bed and pressed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. His irritation didn't disappear entirely but for a moment he forgot what he was ever angry at all. She kept her face close to his. He had a slight frown on his face. She reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. There was a moment of silence in which she began to think he would turn her away, just as she'd turned him away, that he wouldn't accept her apology. He closed the distance between them and pressed his lips fully against hers.

When he pulled away, he pulled down the covers on her side. She climbed into bed beside him. As they settled into the few hours of sleep left before dawn, Draco understood what it would be like with her. It would be difficult and complicated. They would probably argue more than they did anything else. They would have to agree to disagree on virtually everything. And he would always wake up alone. Every morning the bed beside him would be empty. Their relationship consist of stolen moments, quick glances, and brief, accidental touches. But he was convinced it would be enough for him.

_Tonight you just close your eyes  
__and I just watch you  
__slip away_

**TO BE CONTINUED**


End file.
